Sighs (Of the Salvadoran Coffee Farmer)
Wind churns Her understory ... and trash,
tumbling on grounds of coveted freight
which both unearthed and birthed the obscene.
Labored with hands torn, they groom their born
as gazing eyes retreat to the dance
and flight of fanciful figurines.
Piles of lamb's wool bundle upon blue,
while brow with spade under shade furrow –
nature sullied by finger-machines.
Without end they unfold;
the red cherry — "Behold!"
Such work only forgiven by Mother.
Bark-dark skin of warm hearts uphold Her.
Children in gardens with arms stretched, catch
a breath – both theirs and from far away.
Cherubs wash away struggle, grant a
life without trouble; landscapes double;
yet blisters of light lead dreams astray.
You, too, can allow sunshine to soak
upon skin, my friend, where treasures hide,
and mist falls, holding worries at bay.
For verdant She stands;
she serves without demands,
each load feeds the dreams of my brother.
‘Gloria a Díos!’ souls proclaim,
where an earthly pothole's tangled hands
pull labors ripe of birth and flavor.
Adoration emanates from pains,
yet while harvesting broken-backed beans,
a breeze lifts and drifts for their savor.
Dear Lago de Coatepeque;
grand disc of azul; garnished catchment;
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 callus under heavy loads,
inclined through fumes, by feel, and in rhyme,
‘til whistles cushion in fantasy.
Producers, burden upon burden;
providers with hand upon their head —
my, oh my, they toil in ecstasy!
How they harvest with machete as
appendage, binder, and reminder,
that as others they shall never be.
My friend, yes, they ache;
they give, and they take,
all for another.