Waxy green leaves yield white
flowers, dainty, perfume the nights
bear berries, green ripening to red
waiting to be transformed
in my grandmother’s hands.
Milled, laid out under the blistering sun
hulled and roasted to perfection
dark as the dark rain soaked earth
ground up at last to release
that heady aroma that wake the gods
rise from the cup that warms my hands
each morning I savor the potent brew
and the memories that it renews –
the times with Grandmother when we picked
coffee berries, red and sweet;
the times when family and friends would gather
with only their stories and coffee to share.
DVERSE POETS’ PUB’s Bjorn wants us to write about trees this weekend. After playing with several ideas, a dinner conversation about cacao and coffee trees made me decide to write about something familiar – coffee trees. In this way, I am also able to remember my maternal grandmother with whom I spent many childhood hours picking fruits of one kind or another. 🙂
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