I notice a ceiling spider watching me.
I make tea in the cherry-blossom pot.
I nap lightly in the sun-heated chair.
I dream clouds or wake to them.
Tea now as warm as this day.
Worked hard outside all day, then sat
with a cup of tea that she
brought with a madeleine cookie to remember
things past and talk of this present
and watch the sunset on her hair.
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.