Kawa

Brought from the horn.
Brought to me by my mother almost in her milk.
The sight smell ritual of the pot
with a brown moss rising in the rhythm of the stove’s breath
sometime the sweet cardamon too.

The ritual of comfort, intimacy, taste, that of the mother.
The ritual that has traveled with me through times
and the one that has comforted me where others failed.

Where to begin?
The thought- the wanting- the energy rush to get the pot
or find a vendor.
The jar cold from the fridge
anticipation of a miracle of what happens once opened.

When I do I close my eyes inhale exhale inhale again.
Tantric breaths, do they take me to the place, or is that the magic of the black bean?

Strong it must be and smooth
perhaps because of the people who have first known it.
Hot it must be
because mother presses against a window looking out to the drizzle and the snow.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s