In the Tea

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.