Tea with a slice of orange, not lemon.
Within the somber light of winter afternoons.
Trees carved against smudged grey, white softness clinging
To their edges.
Tea, citrus scent arousing my senses
As they trample the soft brown of the front yard,
Shaking up the dust like fragments of the dry summer
As they approach
The sun burning death into the land.
Tea, sweetened water held in its cup like an embrace,
A darkened pool too small to see my reflection,
Yet becomes a giant churning whirlpool
As my hand starts to shake.
Tea, splashes white linen
My mother’s hand painted china now cracked
Broken like the deepest recesses
Of my mind.
All those hours
Like sand dunes
Into the sea