Grandma Poet

My boyfriend brought me home coffee from Seattle. Colombia El Jordan from Stumptown Coffee. A little brown bag with a tongue card you can pull in and out of its skin. You  have to drink the WHOLE cup he said to me. You have to. This little bag of coffee cost $13.75 and I tend to only drink half, let it sit and get cold. The flavor – the little card says: warm aromatics of nutmeg and cinnamon (that) segue into mouth-watering flavors of satsuma orange and ripe blackberry which finish with notes of honey and brown sugar.

Sounds a lot like wine. How much can be packed into such a little bean? But I will drink carefully, with  my whole tongue. He’s right – it’s time I finish the things I make.

I dreamt of an old woman poet. She knew my name, but not my face. When I introduced myself to her she lit up, took my hand, hers was warm. She said she loved my poems, she saw great things in them, but that I wasn’t being open enough.

I wasn’t sure what she meant. Not open enough? c’mon lady! Perhaps not honest enough? I don’t know. I wasn’t sure how I could get underneath the next layer and of course she didn’t explain.

I’ve had dreams of old women before – prophets in a way. They seem to guide me to and through. They give me questions and no answers, they force me to find them myself, which of course is the only way.

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