I considered that,
life is measured.
Like in a sweet recipe.
One teaspoon of cinnamon,
Not the rough bark to be rubbed
over a small toothed grader,
But more like the soft pungent powder.
In the smell I have seen and know,
from my travels
there are Grenadian women,
hunched over rolling wet bark into small cigars.
Their sweaty palms turning rusty red.
Hear them gossip on passion, or lack of it.
Soulfully singing songs from childhood.
Bountiful breasts held in flowered material.
Spending their days hewing cinnamon cigars stuffed into large burlap bags filled to near bursting, like their skirts.
Coarse brown bags stacked to ceiling in a huge dusty red warehouse go off into infinity behind them.
Nothing deters their hands.
More cinnamon than could flavor every dish
ever served by all mankind.
Still they work in a red fever.
In their day, is the architecture of madness.
Like Sisyphus’ toil, and immense passion.
An abundant joy of life.
Measured, one level tablespoon at a time.
Over and over.
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