Walking The Farm
I make an early rise to check on the trees, inherited from father four years ago.
The rains were heavy early in the year, a good sign.
The last trees father chose should be ready for their first harvest.
His influence still covers the hillside, encouraging and intimidating me.
The workers will be arriving soon, ready to pick the bright red fruit.
Many of them knew father, mourned with us.
I wonder if they have confidence in my abilities or worry as much about the future as I do.
Then comes a few weeks of stirring, rotating, and hoping for strong sun,
until the batches are the perfect parchment.
Father had a knack for knowing when it was time.
He'd get out of bed one morning and announce,
"Ready the hulling machines."
As a child, I loved to help with the manual sorting.
I think father liked giving me a small task near so many adults,
even if my work needed checking over.
Now, my favorite part is the sisal bags stacked up and ready to go.
It feels like an end to the hard part,
but in some ways the planning between seasons is the most difficult.
That's when I wish I could still ask for father's advice.
Nose, roast, crack, rest.
Nose, slurp, repeat.
100 tastes a day
To find the perfect blend.
Every seed has a story
Of rainfall, sun, and wind.
The attitude and altitude
Of the farmer and the land
Influence the flavors
Of the beans in my hands.
Floral, chocolate, toasty,
Tangy, acidic, sweet.
Conversation of Questions
How are you doing?
What can I get ya?
Big or small?
Room for cream?
Here or to go?
Do you have a punch card?
Need a reciept?
Cup of Clouds
Swirling clouds of cream push to the bottom,
Half settling and half mixing,
A visual for the science behind density and solutions.
Rippled edges like afternoon tide pools.
Little peaks of color fighting to find equilibrium
Between layers of mahogany, burlap, and fresh cut pine.
Take a sip or give it a spin
To see more blending, more gradations.
Until it's all one,
Or all gone.
There are a steps left out, but four poems felt like enough for a series.