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.

Each part is a...

Patchwork sewn into a whole.




The bittersweet,
the saccharine - low:
the dripping moments dunked and dipped,
the tea-dress torn, the brimmed hat tipped,
the honeyed tea in chipped cup sipped.

A part of a party, an Alice party,
with the danger of a
time-warp hole.

A Tea Party

What time has come
upon this place
that calls for champions
to fall from grace
and delve into the
renegades?

Alleys, gutters, metal bins:
these are our labyrinths.

My hope is pinned
upon your chest,
my breath is neon
carving space
through chiaroscuro
seams.

You’re dressed in white;
I’m draped in black.

Your arm in mine,
the good, the bad –
a swirl, a twirl, a bend…

A dip, a nod across a room
a dainty sip,
a cuppa.