Sighs (Of the Salvadoran Coffee Farmer)
The winds churn Her understory, and trash,
now tumbling on grounds of coveted freight
which both unearthed and birthed the chosen bean.
Labored, and with hands torn, they groom their born
as gazing eyes retreat into the dance
and response of fanciful figurines.
Piles of lamb's wool bundle upon the blue,
while brow, with spade, under the shade furrows –
nature sullied by the finger machines.
Without end they unfold;
the red cherry – "Behold!"
such work only forgiven by Mother.
Bark-dark skin of warm hearts elevate Her.
These children in gardens with arms stretched catch
a breath – both theirs and those from far away.
Their cherubs wash away struggle, grant a
life without trouble, where landscapes double,
yet blisters of light lead their dreams astray.
You, too, can allow the sunshine to soak
upon skin, my friend, where Her treasures hide
and a mist falls, holding worries at bay.
For verdant She stands;
she serves without demands,
each load feeding the dreams of my brother.
‘Gloria a Díos!’ their souls proclaim
from an earthly pothole where tangled hands
pull these labors ripe of birth and flavor.
Adoration emanates from their pains,
yet while harvesting the broken-backed bean,
a cool breeze lifts and drifts for their savor.
Faithful Lago de Coatepeque,
disc of azul, catchment garnished in growth,
sleeping caldron of the divine Savior:
Why offer bounty and vista,
when from crop to barista,
one covey shall never greet the other?
Long walks callous under their heavy loads.
Inclining through fumes, by feel, and in rhyme,
their whistling cushions the fantasy.
These producers, burden upon burden,
these providers, with hand upon their head —
my, oh my, how they toil in ecstasy!
Here, they harvest with the machete as
an appendage, binder, and reminder,
that as the others they shall never be.
My friend, yes, they ache,
they give, and they take,
all for another.