The sunset color of this morning’s tea
in its clear glass is a filter
where I can view this day’s end.
In oak, cedar and maple liquid hues,
I see early winter as autumn again.
In a steamy cloud, lotus flowers arrive.
Out of season, this cool autumn morning,
drinking these pink flowers I am momentarily
here and in your summer water garden.
My hand holding your hand and heat.
An autumn morning that feels like winter.
No bees, no flowers in my garden.
I add honey to my flowering tea.
Two million summer blooms yields a pound
of nectar – a few minutes of summer.
Steam from the pot’s pour sends water
back into the air to rise up
into the clouds drifting rapidly east
over an ocean and continent to island
mountains scented with coconuts, cinnamon and tea.
Not late, but late enough for sleep.
People still drinking their coffee and tea,
ending their day or starting their night.
The child speaking French to her father
said Goodnight to only me. Only me.
The Cafe Terrace on the Place du Forum, Arles, at Night
by Vincent van Gogh.