great cups of tea

i’m passionate about steeping great cups of tea
and picking the harvest in the morning,
gathering red-faced babies in the hammock of my skirt,
my bottom turned up for the diseased flies to stick their noses into

i’ve got weak legs for the sun and i sit before him
like his radiance is the breath that rushes
into my passageways and the fruits stacking in my belly, too:
      all the energy i steal is mine and has always been

i sweat at the sight of the trees whilst in their dance
they move and shake, a subtle, sleep-like trance in the rain
— everything is rhythmic here,
      everything is perfect
      everything makes sense

           the magic happens

           and while it does its unpracticed thing   ,

i wait for the sky to open up
i wait for a ballad to profess its score over my head
and for nature to prove its fidelity
i wait for the burst of warmth in my groin
or for my eyes to roll inward
and all the light to cast aqua shades of jazz-tune cool
over the ridges, the tops of houses, where the land
meets the water and the people face their fears

i wait to devote to something beyond the act of waking
and loving the emptiness of each new day

for my mystification of existence to turn into a realness,
a relic i can read to my unborn children
and slip into the hands of friends
until the last sip of every cup is gone
and we become dizzy,
and give up on wondering why the world spins

and then, simply, i could live
passionless