Ode to Kawphy

Kawphy Thyme is my Bapa’s brain child. It is a truly magical experience when done properly.

The dawn blooms silver-pink, barely lighting my path

I climb the high hillside, filling my lungs with thinning air

With burlap in hand, I carefully select the dark red ripest

They drip from the fruited tree like tiny whiny grapes

I don’t cherish the fruit as much as I covet the seeds

The dawn heats water per the dictator’s striking hand

I am in Kenya, Ethiopia, Costa Rica, Sumatra, Timor, New Guinea.

I am roasting in the sun. I am cool beneath the shade.

I am the Sabbats and Esbats wrapped in the Holy Grail

I am the earth which collects my offspring

I am the water that nourishes my roots

I am the air which determines my wealth of ideas

I am the fire on which my ovaries are brought to life.

I am the spirit wrapped in each element,

Indulged with a noisy slurping morning prayer,

“Ah, nectar of the Gods.”

I am Kawphy, not the coffee you seek.

I am the commune of commiseration

I am the lifeblood of the creators

I am the dreamless sleep of the catatonic believers

I am the dream of the hillside, delivered for a tithe of glazed donuts.

I am to be honored as family, birthed to live among emotions.

I am the power to move the world from my small hillside tree.

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