Above the sea, morning rises bruised,
mottled pink and purple,
like it did battle in the dark hours
or collided with some celestial bedpost.
I watch the sky pass through
various stages of healing until it clears.
Back at the cottage, I study
my new supply of tea leaves
with deluxious descriptors like
- Coconut Macaron
- Peach Cobbler
- Chocolate Hazelnut
Names that invite me to
- slow down
- give thanks
- and celebrate.
Maybe I feel like
- a simple green jasmine
- or Darjeeling
- or Earl Gray
- or this stray bag of Zen
What about some chai topped with a little whipped cream?
I choose Joy.
I heat some water on the stove in the red kettle,
steep the blend of jasmine flowers,
orange peel, and essence of tangerine.
Tiny geckos scatter as I follow the brick path
to the white bench under the palms
near the empty birdbath.
I curl my legs under me, lift Joy to my lips.
But it’s too weak.