Tea Leaves

My fingers reach, but do not touch-
I pass through the cup
(is it even warm?)
and on through this thousand-pound wood
counter as if it were a wind of water.

The glass is no window;
I stare out a portal
to somewhere there is sunlight
somewhere that is real
a place to touch
to be touched
to sip time,
slurp moments
burp the excess
tea breath,
rosy whispers among friends.

Out there,
Unreachable.

It is the Beyond, within.
I wonder if I will
find it again - a voice
calls out “I am here!”
I think it is a clock not yet
assembled, a jumble of cogs and
spikes and wheels, that will be
the future. The tick-tock.
but it is the Past.

unwound.

There is no escaping,
just settling in
a burrowing, a closing off
of everything
but loss,

the dark bell jar
descends

tea leaves scatter
in the wind.


- written upon hearing that my mentor (who suggested I pursue political science) passed away last night. Patricia Weitsman, you were loved, and your legacy will ripple on and on and on.