Seasons of Tea

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 sea waters Receding Into the sea