Back to the Grind

Strongly the scent ensnares my mind,

dancing merrily and gingerly in both memory

and on my tongue. The fruit of the plant taken,

as an Incan sacrifice, a child from the mother;

ripped and torn, dried until dead. Its dehydrated remains,

a shadow of what once stood beautiful and vibrant.

Now the ashy remains, a lifeless corpse.

Yet the fresh grinds pressed with exquisite precision,

once flooded like the Hot Gates—drowning beneath

the boiling essence of all life on Earth. We take from her,

and she still pays us kindly. The brew, once made, refreshes

us too. She’ll hold true to her end of the bargain…providing

us both nutrients and shelter. Yet never once do we stop to observe

her splendor.

The brew takes me back to a time, a memory both happy and strong.

When Men were Giants, and the hills weren’t tall. To the Lake District,

in the…