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.
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.