Ode to Kawphy
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.