The sun burns off the fog
as orioles eat store-bought
grape with no mind
as to where it came from
or who grew and picked
the grapes and filled the jar.
Me, sipping coffee from beans we can't grow
Me, sipping coffee from beans we can't grow
but remembering young girls with shy smiles
picking beans under triple canopy jungle.
I open the door to snap photos
as the fog lifts from the headlands
and a bank of clouds pose as a mountain,
white-peaked with angry undertones—
indigo bunting breaking free of the mother cloud.
Red wing blackbird glides in for a landing
confident as a pilot adjusting his flaps.
I never wanted anything more.
Written and posting for dVerse, the Poet's Pub, "Go and Open the Door" and for Poets and Storytellers who ask for a Slice of Life. This is mine. Have a cuppa with me?!