Tea

Tea in a mug, held between both hands,

          late winter light

slanting through the windows.

All week I’ve brewed tea, by which I mean

          thrown a bag

into hot water and waited three minutes

for its amber bloom. Added honey,

          a dollop of milk,

sipped accordingly. In my life

I’ve avoided routine. Read serenity

          as a synonym

for boredom. I’d like to say my mind

has settled after an appropriate wait,

          that peace

blooms amber on the page,

and I have at last reached the point

          where the point

doesn’t matter―but that would just be

me drinking whatever blend of fantasy

          I happen to be

brewing, by which I mean throwing an idea

into hot water, adding a dollop of BS,

          and waiting for sweetness

to seep into perception. Sipping accordingly.