When the Beans Ripen

Morning light seeps through emerald waves, each coffee bush a quiet hymn raised toward the sky. Mist clings to leaves like whispered secrets, and I move among them, breath steady, heart open, carrying the weight of seasons in my palms.

Hands stained russet by earth’s ancient ink, we tread the rows as if they were veins of the world, drawing life from soil older than memory. Our fingers brush each reddening berry, testing its pulse: a promise of warmth, of dawn.

Here, beneath these watchful hills, we become stewards of patience, learning that ripeness can neither be hurried nor feigned. In the hush between leaf and leaf, I feel something stir: a longing older than harvest, a pledge written in sun and rain.

The beans hang like garnets in green velvet, each one a heartbeat echoing deep within me, a reminder that love, like coffee, is fermented by time, distilled by care. I gather them with the devotion of a vow: to honor this land, to honor its gift.

At midday, we rest in the shade of ancient trees, their roots winding through our shared stories. Laughter rises, soft as steam from a warming cup; we sip the day’s first taste, finding in its warmth the mirror of our own resilience.

When dusk drapes the fields in molten gold, we lay down our baskets, full, grateful, worn, and breathe in the dusk-sweet air. In that quiet, the Ghats stand sentinel, their silhouettes a covenant of return.

I leave with pockets of berries, but carry more: the hum of community, the slow unfolding of purpose, the eternal pulse of harvest’s cycle. And in every cup that rises to my lips, I taste the undying love we pour into soil, into bean, into dawn.