On Coffee.
How many poets have sat down to write a piece of work and decided to do it on coffee?
Is this an ode to the bean that is more like a cherry pit that the assumed brown treasure plucked from this our Mother earth?
Will I find the appropriate words to capture the imagery from this caffeinated therapy that so many men, and women, have consumed before me?
Can I pull each line of verse from each sip of the bitter sweet yet ultimately indescribable sensation locked within the myriad of flayors?
What was my compulsion to convert from the vintage of my native teas to the concoction of New World alchemy?
Like the drips falling into the Coffee pot
like the aroma of forgotten places or spaces
that you only have wished to visit
like the people that you have only
begun to dream up.
This is my coffee poem and now it's time
to find another cup.
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