Tea

Hot. Steaming.
Potful of liquid golden earth.
A sip brings notes of roasted barley
and patter of deersteps across the forest hearth.
It coils and uncoils, a wisp of tranquil heat
down the bend of my throat
over the crevice-laced heart
mending forgotten muscles and tussles,
hustles the over-ground mill
that once again begins to spin.
And in the wind that trails its wings,
relish the scents
of winter,
autumn,
summer,
and spring.

 

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