The smell of coffee. Pages
steeped and hung to dry. A strung out hands
I’m making another set of my handcrafted collection of poetry God/he. I enjoy the process. It’s timely, reflective. It makes me thankful for one of the many things that trees give. For the privilege of belief. For the weight of words. For women and men far and near who work at the wheel to produce coffee. That seeds planted in soil take root. That time pauses and moves. That we can, and must, wrestle for the blessing. That words become flesh.