Time un-
furls
slowly,
as do the leaves,
as do the words.
As if we
plucked
from domestic altitudes,
from Buddha's
hand
the soil's stillness.
I did not stir
but steeped.
For to steep
the morning
is to stretch
willow-backed
in an arch.
Like a leaf,
bearing the same-
faced farmer's
name in gold,
in the tip.
I could look
upon this willow,
these leaves
for a long and
long time.
Out of them
rises the seasons
and souls woven
and yawning,
with a touch
of honeyed malt
that does not hide the past
or deny the not-past—
I walked abroad.
What I'd lose
to walk forever.
To tread alone,
sipping by spinachy people
who would say
I am here.
And just like the opening
leaf I am
somewhere between dead
and alive.
For a passion
is amidst.
No, a mist,
because it is
in the air.
It is
in the tea.
