American poet Emily Dickinson wrote over 1,700 poems focusing on the themes of love, nature, time, life, death, and eternity.
Also bees.
But what if she'd loved coffee more?
Here’s how I imagine her poems would have gone.
I'll tell you how the brew perked—
A dribble at a time,
The sweet stream rose like fragrant mists,
The tears of joy, they ran.
My brain untied its bonnet,
Its battle all but won,
As I said softly to myself,
"The coffee pot's begun!"
How much I drank, I know not.
I just know that my smile
As eagerly as a young girl's
Was beaming all the while
Till when my cup was drained and dried
Then sunlight leeched to gray.
I set down my now-empty mug
And softly stole away.
The coffee's not afraid of me,
I know its every drip;
The pretty people in the shop
They watch me, sip by sip—
Lattes laugh louder when I come—
The mochas madder play.
Wherefore, mine eyes, thy silver mists?
Wherefore, O summer's day?
I lost a Mug the other day!
Has Anybody found?
You'll know it by the lovely cream
That I have swirled around
A Rich man—might not notice it—
Yet—to my frugal Eye,
Of more Esteem than Ducats—
Oh find it—Sir—for me!
The Brain, within its Groove
Runs evenly—and true—
But once it Decaf serve—
'Twere easier for you—
To put a Current back—
When Floods have slit the Hills—
And copped a Turnpike for Themselves—
And trodden out the Mills—
My carafe's wider than the Sky—
For—put them side by side—
The one the other will contain
With ease—and You—beside—
My carafe's deeper than the sea—
For—hold them Blue to Blue—
The one the other will absorb—
As Sponges—Buckets—do—
My carafe's just the weight of God—
For—Heft them—Pound for Pound—
And they will differ—if they do—
As Syllable from Sound—
Caffeine—is Memory—awake—
Her Parties all astir—
A Presence of Departed Acts—
At window and at Door—
Its Past—set down before the Cup
Delighted with this Brew—
Perusal—to facilitate—
And help Belief to break through—
Decaf is cureless—the Disease
Not even God—could heal—
Let's cancel distribution
Of this Ultimate Raw Deal—
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