O Yerba Mate! I will herein extoll thy many virtues. You give me the energy to run around like a speed freak every morning even though I didn’t get enough sleep and drank too much the night before. You infuse my weary mind with light. You taste bitter, yes, but sweetly bitter, like a complex green tea. The apparatus from which to drink of you looks rather like a bong. Guests look longingly/frightened at me in the morning as I sip from you. You must be passed on the left hand side. One person acting as the host, the hot water (but not boiling!) re-filler. Your bombilla not to be touched except by lips once the session begun. I drink you alone. I pass you around. I drink you on the boat dock, listening to the sounds of man and geese arousing themselves into another new world. I drink you in the dining room. I drink you as I write this. Your caffeine stimulating but not nauseating in the manner of coffee. Next to you, coffee is a brute, a hairy unfocused shot in the arm. Mate, my friend, my lover, you go straight to the dome.