Imogene’s Notebook
Tea Alchemy
A poem
Into my glass teapot,
little golden sirens —
splash.
The humming begins low and bitter.
The fins shiver and wrap each other.
Was the water too cold? I wonder.
The fire in my palm heats a waterfall.
Along the glass walls, it pours.
In the midst of the rising mist,
the sirens do not see their breaths.
And so their hearts still and tails rest.
If I blow a gentle wind,
would their lungs stir?
Within two breaths,
the black of their eyes
blows the clouds apart.
My teapot brews into life.
Golden crowns unfurl,
and water gushes gold.
If I spill two honey drops,
would they sing me a song?
My thoughts spilled into their palms.
They caught the hope in my breath,
seized my eyes and scented my lips.
Slender fingers reach for slippery steam.
Tug, pull, and drag —
and now my face is lured
into waters deep.
Into the glass teapot —
I splash.
The water sings and the glass
echoes the flow of our fins.
There may be seven seas,
but none make the soul
taste so sweet.
