MORNING TEA RITUAL

Morning officially begins after that 2nd cup of tea 

in a blue mug, the color of flawless summer skies. 

In the half-light of dawn, 

the neon blue light of the electric kettle 

is as mesmerizing as a bug zapper. 

Or a Blue Light Special on Aisle Three.

I try not to circle its aura, like moth to flame,

but I’m helpless in its neon wake, 

the silver bubbles roil to the surface, 

seeking the solace of gravity in jetstreams.

I pour boiling water into the flask. 

Two Red Roses, one Barry’s, to be exact.

Replicating my grandmother’s favorite blend, 

only it was McGrath’s—long gone now, like all the rest. 

Like sneaking into the closet to try on on her Sunday shoes, 

carved and etched by bonespurs and bunions.

And I dole out a jamspoon of sugar from a crystal bowl, 

it could’ve been hers, but it was a thrift store find 

that rings true to the past, like the knell of a church bell,

when I strike it with her silver scalloped jamspoon 

that doubles as part clapper and part shovel. 

Only then can I survey the wreckage of morning, 

composed, girding my loins, ready to face this day.

4/6 Write On! workshop with Terri Glass