The Baristas of Spirit

Have you ever thought that poetry, like coffee, might be a kind of communion? Each cup brewed from the same source, yet poured through different hands, carrying fragrance, warmth, and Spirit.

Have you ever asked if your words were spoken before?

Or if another’s lips once carried the same wonder?

All is cyclical,

Even creation —

All returns to source as it was,

Before formation gave birth to tangibility.

Were we once beneath another sky,

Looking out through different eyes,

Seeing through fewer layers of acquired wisdom?

Or are we all sipping from the same fountain —

Is this why echoes ripple across our artistry?

Are we all dining at the same café,

Serving our own versions of a mocha latte?

Are we baristas of life’s varied flavors,

Brewing strength as beans ground down,

Mixed with purified water until fragrance rises,

Serving samples of source as savored,

Granting breeeews of Spirit-filled aroma

To coffee cups of every shape and size.

We, the baristas brewing Spirit,

Entreat the drinker to sip slowly,

To mind the weight of heat,

To know that what is consumed is holy —

The communion of Spirit in flesh,

Bound in this metaphor of coffee.

As always Dust,

To you,

For you,

From Him,

In me.