Poetry
Nature

Tea Ceremony

Under the heave of clouds, 
as if wings were not wings
but a paintbrush loaded with water;
a pelican takes its time
washing the sky
in meditative descent,
and seems to never truly land.
Now, with a dip of her prehistoric head —
swallowed into a secret 
world beneath 
the skin of water — 
river ripples echo
in my teacup. Steeping minerals;
a bitter ferment from the deepest
land that hands cannot reach.
The root of legends. And in that moment,
this massive earth finds a place for me. 
A melted ghost of myself comes back,
staring down and daring me once
again to release my breath.

Tell me your story and I’ll help tell it to the world

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