Ode to the Bean

by the poet mom

They are a mellow deep brown, not too dark but still brimming with richness.

The stove flame ignites.  It bursts to life.

The kettle sizzles and begins to warm.

The beans are ground in a flurry of shiny whirling blades.

The pure bubbling water releases the beans’ potential and fills the still kitchen with an awakening aroma.

The clock ticks on the wall.

My time is short.

Soon the house will stir.

My peaceful morning will slowly begin to hum and then quake.

There will be breakfasts and lunches to make, places to be, appointments to keep.

But for now it’s just me and the modest bean.

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