meditations on morning tea

meditations on morning tea

the kettle calls

for me 

every morning

and I greet it 

with pitted skin,

a yawning red mouth. 

the hair I weave 

around a fingertip--

falling,

smeared

like hasty brushstrokes

across the kitchen floor. 

the world is hungry, 

overgrown weeds

spilling over the curb. 

nibbling at my face

imploringly,

can't I spare something

to eat, to give?

the kettle whistles, 

impatient for tea. 

ginger, chamomile, 

cardamom pods

I turn, 

prayer beads 

from palm to palm.

they say 

the finest tea 

has two leaves and a bud. 

an aroma that unfurls, 

lingering presence 

over your shoulder. 

i wouldn't know

for sure. 

they all taste of 

parchment paper, 

the hands of farm workers

i'll never meet.  

green, dissolving

into a mossy pond. 

to think

that we fought wars 

over 

the solitude of morning. 

in answer, 

steam rises 

from my mug 

and settles,   

a film of dust 

warming my face.