Tea. 6.16 am. Retro-pop
plays on your radio, the cat
yawning and upturned, curling
corner where your quilt acts
as a heater, the spoon tinkers
like a bell, you
remember the temple, don’t you?
Scent of drizzle and white flowers
the child you, becoming
medicine for sad mornings, slowly
into one page
of a new book, unwritten
but revisited. Tea, 6.19 am, brewed.
This honey though, weak and plastic,
nothing compares to the beehive, above
the temple wall