Tea (r 8)

Tea (R 8)

Climbing away to a mist beyond foliage
where leaves leave peaks alone
naked at the top
no tea leaves to read

Wandering up
lost from you, climbing
away to a mist, I had hoped
something would
move me like you did a day
looking up, window listening
to true katydids play forelegs
at tops of oak trees, when I
seemed home, as if from the kitchen
you were coming to a boil with
true approval and encouragement tea.

Mountain climbing where
leaves leave peaks, I had hoped
to let spirits of you sanctify
meanders in the cold with gracious thoughts,
those hot dreams of you that infuse the stew
I carry in my backpack, mostly filled with
drudge stuff, but your precious memorandear
was tucked into the rear pocket made for
precious notes like gems amen, something
to hold for incantations against pebbles
in the shoes and grace for stumble stones
that haunt the winding up mountain path

Broken trees below the snow line
broken hearts above
misty mountain hawks
splintered memories clawing

Blue skies and fluff at the mountain top.
In a cloud I saw your face, a
tea cup and a dove, but

I heard myself scream and
saw the grief of my breath
form wispy puffs that fly away

But those sorrows are not of you,
though you do embrace every sparrow,
and when you’d not know
the name of the bird, you’d
christen it cute and lovely like you are

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