“You have no seasons in that small island of yours,” she says, with a smile that stinks of nurtured ignorance and mirth-rich malice. “That is why your people migrate to our lands, right? Searching for more, wanting better, needing our green Springs and the vivid orange of our Falls? So sad.”
For a fiery moment, I taste her nasty thoughts wanting to crawl into my words. But I magic the flames into a knowing grin—she shan’t pull her rot out of my tongue. And I speak my truth: “In my small island, Fall sleeps in the reds of the coffee cherry. We arouse it awake with our fingers, berry by berry, until our baskets are full of warming cups. We drink October all year long. And so do you. But the taste buds of your spirit are dead. So you fail to notice. So very sad.”
the reddest berries
lose their dresses for the Fall,
to warm coffee cups
the wee notes…
– All right, so maybe a wee bit of her nastiness touched my pen’s tongue *cough, cough cackle*.
– In the bit of the Dominican Republic where I was born, coffee harvest used to begin in October.
– Linked to Sanaa’s Prompt Nights – Crunching, Crinkling Autumn swirling in the Breeze.