Tea

By Sandra Marchetti

My breath skates
across the glass,
golden scales push off
in electric bright
rifles at dawn.

I sip the flowers.
They flesh
in a way I see
when deposed of you,
carefully.

Now is the time for silence
of recognition—
the wintering observation.
I am a centering figure
bright to catch.

The lit wick of you
sleeps in another country.
I look at the glass,
watch a flower unfurl
and darkly lit, I fall.