Origami and Tea

He poured the heat

steeping the roots

before what was left of me.

Above us,

paper cranes hung by threads,

he saw the house behind my eyes, no lights on.

He watched as I gave my mind to this paper. 

Without a word,

he drew up a chair

and began folding a crane.

His hands moved.

My silence followed.

Folding one flap after another 

his hands grounded me.

Somehow, he knew

how far away I’d traveled,

not just from home. But within. 

Corner to corner,

I pressed the ache into a crease

Giving my silence wings.

The alchemist of more than just ginger and mint,

he called my crane special.

And left the crookedness

to keep its character.

There are hours

I will tell no one about.

I made this bird

inside one.