Morning Tea


The sun isn’t coming up;

the sky permanently tea-stained

in rings that show how slowly

the imbiber supped his brew.


So slowly, perhaps, that it fermented,

changing the very nature of the tea,

crinkling the leaves into soggy

angles that floated like powder.


Light spills forth like liquids from

a mug or bowl held by an unsteady

hand, perhaps shaky or unnerved

from age or previous mischief.


It darkens into a furious depth

before warming in the cold sky,

rings in the cup from which

the city breathes in the fragrance.

Composed 01/11/14

Author’s note: I’m trying to cut down on the lengthiness of my poems by trying some shorter ones. Brevity is the soul of wit, as they say.


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