Nancy Tupper Ling
You’re about to board the plane.
I’m home, counting leaves;
dark spindly masses linger in your cup.
I’m not searching for divinations.
Just wondering: how the brittle, the weak,
awaken and resurrect under hot water,
steep a home to fragrance?
How many branches beg
this body to sing?
And, what remains here for me—
the way the tea singed your tongue,
the way it clings to my lips when you leave?