Ambrosia should have been this dark and bitter
potion, not the liqueur of yeasty fruit,
not the sparkly cloy that Greek admen
teach us gods guzzle in mythy mope.
A god’s palate has such a pampered tongue—
libated with honey of human woe and satiate
with the pure chill of heart-brewed sorrow—
it should wake to a richer taste.
Something the flavor of soil worn by till,
sweat glazed and thorn textured. And dark
as morning seasoned by wind sifting snow
over low mounds in the cottonwood grove.
This is the proper recipe of earth and dark
to serve at the first breakfast of souls.
In response to the Ragtag Community prompt Coffee