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the green-ness
of a grasshopper,
sleep-turns of a
hibiscus at dawn,
soft humming
of the wind outside
a closed glass window
— went unnoticed today.
quietly, as the day
settled upon a
simmering turmoil,
the soap washed off
a ceramic cup
just perfectly.
cold feet
were warmed
inside a madness
of bedsheets,
blankets and duvets.
a favourite song
was made.
hair dried
flawlessly.
two people
fell asleep after
a long, long night.
a baby cow
took its first
baby breath.
the sparkle
of orange,
blue fish
underneath
clear water
in the
afternoon sun,
big shadow at
the damp roots
of a broad tree,
an old lady's
sweet laughter
at the television
— went unnoticed today.
slowly, as the day
bubbled into a hot
and cold mess,
hungry people
had their food.
a new leaf
bloomed on
a houseplant.
a notebook
was completely filled.
i wrote a small poem.
tilting a ceramic cup of tea towards the sun, i imagine all the teas we have had together. many mornings of waking up early; sitting in the quiet sounds of a television before the storm. the afternoon we made cake for the first time — checking on it over and over again, and still burning it a little — i made tea while we waited. for many years you sang songs in the evening, and stopped completely in the last few. with spiced fruit and laughter at the small garden, and then in the stillness of a purple sky when you stopped speaking to me with love, finally — we had tea. a ritual repeated over and over, it gave us something to hold onto when a home was crumbling around us. in moments of joy you called me daughter, and other times you didn't. and somewhere between that; and between the balcony and the table, stillness and chaos, sanity and paranoia, home and hell — we had glimpses of normal. food and small talk. news about the neighbours. sweet yoghurt. the bird we rescued from the bottom of a tall tree. crisp shirts that came back from the dry-cleaners. the flowers you embroidered on handkerchiefs. and tea. in the quiet, and while people spoke on the low-volume television, we sat down and finished our cups.

here, as the sunlight paints the ceramic golden, some of these days and parts of us have wilted in our old garden and decayed into an ugly-marvellous disappearance. here with my tea today, years later, i have grown a new leaf.
the old summer houses
— home to me
lonely for you —
are waiting
in the snowstorm
for a cup of tea;
for imagination
of rehearsal goodbyes,
of floors, paintings, birthday
people, knees, drugstore biscuits
joy and geraniums!
but i stand frozen
in the afternoon rain.
would you go
play my part?
a man is making music; playing a wooden piano and writing a song from the stories in his head. a woman has left away the dust on her black shoes, in a previous rain's puddle on the street. you're alone in your apartment. you have made another coffee, read a poem and sang to yourself in the evening. somewhere there has been an argument between lovers. two lovely people trying to untangle themselves out of a word-chaos, and just be held a little longer. loved a little more. the blue in the skies have gone and come again. and as we sit here in our joy and pain and relief and melancholy and warmth and heartbrokenness — a wet plate in the kitchen has slowly dried. a dog has found a warm sun spot; circled around it and settled for an afternoon nap. a ripple in a pond has dissolved into stillness, after the children ran out of pebbles and left the park. as we grieve and celebrate — the world has gone on breathing. moving and changing and creating life. no matter how we see it in the moment, the world is still gorgeously magical. it has always been. it will always be.
when you're
back home
after a night
of storm,
coldness
and rubble,
there will be
a quiet kitchen
and two blue
cups of coffee.
when you
reach here,
rest your wet
hat, and wash
the dirt out of
your hair.
take off
your coat
and sit down.
there will be
oranges, kiwis,
lemons resting
on the countertop.
fresh flowers
in an old ***.
an orange cat
laying in the
afternoon sun;
a sweet dog
in slumber.
in your stillness
you will revisit
the storm in
memory —
be careful
to only look
from a distance.
the monotone
sound of a vacuum
in the other room,
will bring you back.
you can sleep
here, or take a
walk along the
road outside.
or drive to
the beach.
after the storm
when you
come home,
there will be
hot jardineira
with whole
vegetables
for lunch.
and roasted
cinnamon apple
if you'd like it.
after the cold
when you arrive,
you will have
a place to
cry and
laugh
and live.
you can be
here for
as long as
you want.
come soon.
poetry,
on a
strange
day,
is in swirls
through time
in a rainy sky.
it's six am
somewhere,
while it's twelve
in the afternoon
somewhere else.
here
it's just
today.
the knock
of the bottom
of our
cups
put on the
top of the table;
the swish,
swoosh,
******
of the outside
when a visitor
opens the door.
i am afraid
i will forget
my words,
and that you
will ask me
of the world
and find that i
know nothing.
but you talk
about oranges.
piquant, ...sweet,
and simple — i
find it easy
to talk about
oranges.
almost
comforting
to imagine it
in tea and made
into jam, and had
for breakfast.
sounds of cutlery
and steam from
the coffee machine;
the smell of
winter air.
this is not
a big moment —
big moments
scare me.
this is
inconspicuous.
you are
shy, and
i am unpredictable.
and you have
brought me
wildflowers.
inside,
it's still today;
outside
... i'm not sure.
look —
there is a moon
in the morning,
and there
is poetry
in the sky.
where do we
go from here?
makeloveandtea Dec 2019
a house
in the
morning
sun.
lavender,
blue
and
grey rugs,
a yoga mat,
a small
wooden
table.
coffee-cup
with tea
on the table.
the front door
is open to
the porch;
the air smells
of tea steam,
and the mogra
down the street.
the kitchen
countertop
is dry;
a saucepan
atop
the stove.
walls — cold
from last night's
downpour.
houseplants —
extraordinarily
sleepy.
a warm, grey
and white
duvet,
brought
from the
bedroom
and put next
to the table
with the tea.

the
soft hum
of the
passing
cycles,
and the
occasional
yellow bus.

the
soft sway
of the
living-room
curtains.
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