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,
blackened to near-charcoal, then ground without mercy
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
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.