A thick bar or a small orb
A pebble or a globe
The sight of brunette or umber
A soft mocha or a syrup

A stuffing or solid
The taste of hard work
It's a bean no longer,
need of peel.

Flavor so rich and full,
Money can buy but not feel.

I press my hand down,
Slowly, onto the surface
Taking in all of what I feel
A slow still, a polite chill

I think it's oak, maybe mangrove
Aged richly to a russet fade
I trace the grains,
Nothing to be unsee.

There's hints of umber
And a dash of pecan,
A smell so earthy, divine
Softly coated so nothing splinters

Lines trace the frame
Like a painter pieces a canvas
Swirled lines like calligraphy
A piece of art.