Tea

Tea

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

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Tea (Draft 5)

Tea (Draft 5)

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, hoping
something would
move me like you did a day
looking up, listening
to true katydids
at the top of the oak tree
serving me 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

Tea (Draft 4)

Tea (Draft 4)

When I’ve wandered in the cold,
I’ve always hoped something would
move me like you do with true
approval and encouragement tea,
always 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
is 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 see your face, a
tea cup and a dove, but

I hear myself scream and
see 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

Tea (Draft 3)

Tea (Draft 3)

When I’ve wandered in the cold,
I’ve always hoped something would
move me like you do with
approval and encouragement tea,
always hoped, had sanctified
meanders in the cold with thoughts,
hot dreams of you that carried
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

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 see your face, a
tea cup and a dove, but

I hear myself scream and
see 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

Tea (Draft 2)

Tea (Draft 2)

When I’ve wandered in the cold,
I’ve always hoped something would
move me like you do with
approval and encouragement tea
always hoped, had sanctified
meanders in the cold with thoughts,
hot dreams of you that carried
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

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

Tea (Confused Draft minus 2 [below Draft 1])

Tea (Draft minus 2[theme missing or confused])

Hope something moves me like you do
with approval and encouragement tea.

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

— Douglas Gilbert