Morning Coffee

Morning Coffee This morning over my breakfast of toast and first coffee I became lost in the black grounds at the bottom of my cup, the gritty end of the line for that cherry-red berry, abducted from it’s misty origin, roasted, toasted, blackened to near-charcoal, then ground without mercy and doused in boiling water, drained and discarded into oblivion, forgotten – the end of a tragic tale. It must have been one of those all too rare moments when my fuzzy psyche parted to consider other possibilities for that life-to-death-to-discard cycle. Along its often painful path that berry gave a measure of security to those who tended it, loved it for its potential, then sent it along to its destiny. The struggles it endured gave livelihood to many (some in excess of their worth), and considerable pleasure at the end. However, with considerate and careful attention from those who appreciate its arduous path there is rebirth to a new life and form, another opportunity to share the goodness implicit in those red-ripe berries taken not so very long ago. Each spring morning after the news of the day and my first cup I add the dregs to my garden compost, and give thanks through my kitchen window for the wonder and glory that is life; the violet passion flowers in my garden attest to the true value of sacrifice. 01.02.2013