Tea (Draft 1)

Tea (Draft 1)

When I’ve wandered in the cold,
I’ve always hoped something would
move me like you do with
approval and encouragement tea
always sanctified meanders in the cold with thoughts,
hot dreams of you that
carry your stew in my backpack, filled with
drudge stuff, and your precious memorandear
tucked into the pocket for precious notes like gems
something to hold for incantations against
pebbles in the shoes and stumble stones
on the winding up mountain path

Blue skies and fluff at the mountain top.
In a cloud I see your face and a tea cup.

I hear myself scream and
see the grief of my breath
form wispy puffs that fly away

Winding down
there are birds in the sky
and no stumble stones, but
only the scent of tea up my nose
the feel of a memorandear in my pocket

There is sweetness to the air
your valley is near,
could be I’ll stumble
by your house to leave a note
or ring where I learned that
fresh tea is sweet when brewed
for an occasion where eyes meet

and blinks become flutters
a stuttered word divine, because
what would be affirmed in the steep
is the scent of wafting play where
seeping things flow out into
the rivers in two cups
fragrant with cinnamon
and swirly with a word
whispered in the mists
before silence goes to bed

I’ve seen it in a memo.

Ding dong.

— Douglas Gilbert

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