In Praise of Saffron

A poem about saffron, a renowned seasoning and medicinal herb cultivated near Mashhad, Iran, and elsewhere. It takes those with dexterous fingers and patient dispositions to hand-harvest the crimson stamen 'threads.' Often, therefore, it is women chosen to harvest the coveted crimson threads, the essence of which produces a calming effect on a person, enriches flavor, and soothes the skin. Worth thousands of dollars per kilo, it is the world's costliest spice.

On Persian plains the purple carpet blooms

No thanks to desert winds harassing ‘round

But to the Maker who from hidden rooms

Finds scarlet store to sprinkle on the ground

We restless souls in clay and water live

Yet can’t but covet dust grasped by the hand

In imitation of our mother Eve

Whose slender limb partook the fruit He banned

How fitting, then, that by her daughters’ grace

The saffron’s secrets slowly are disclosed

As strand by strand extracted they erase

The cares our anxious musings interposed

And whisper of the time when cool of day

Brought fellowship beneath the evening star

Where every tree was ours except a stay

On one dark bough that led from snake to scars

And so until that eon when the curse

No longer stokes the fever of our fears

We bless your touch, veiled oriental nurse,

Upon our tea leaves, banquets, tongues, and tears

? Kurt M?hler