by Jim Davis
The modern definition of tea
has essentially dissolved into anything
ground, chopped and steeped: mulch
in boiling water, mugged. Do not
get me wrong, I think it’s perfect
to sip while sitting on a patio
in the dusk of what was
a hot summer day, after
kissing her goodbye for what might be
the final time, beginning to surge
in my gut, the heavy reminder,
years of bubbling emotion,
masticated butterflies, quelled
by chamomile and dandelion,
without a single leaf of tea.
Beneath heavy sheets I consider
the snow that will fall by morning,
or, perhaps it has fallen;
and all that was not
harvested and sold, now lies
beneath a white blanket:
lain delicate and dry, or
blue, thick and soft,
escaping in plumes
from a warm mug.
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Jim Davis is a graduate of Knox College and now lives, writes, and paints in Chicago. His work has been selected to appear in Midwest Literary Review, Chiron Review, The Ante Review, Red River Review, and The Café Review, among others. He has two chapbooks forthcoming from Mite Press. In addition to the arts, Jim travels the world as an international semi-professional football player. |
WILLOWS WEPT REVIEW 