Always, tea time with friends,
even if you're a coffee drinker, then --
you're not anymore. Under the ambrosia
and silky honey pour of evening,
everyone can hold a porcelain cup
with both hands, and hold it out
and press it into the hands of a friend.
Each day, three people despite
the hot weather, sip warm drinks,
there's nothing stuffy about these halcyon days
up on the tenth floor, cloud-bound with windows
that open up into forever in summer,
sweet words as you mix three sugar cubes
into her wide-brimmed cup with a chipped rim.
Anytime, dissolving into the ichor
that fills you from the base of your back
to the top of your cloud-bearing head,
bearing dreams that this can go on forever,
moments like golden dew-drops on a thread,
no deities, only human hands needed
to brew these celestial things.