Chamomile Tea | finding a focus
The mug pulsed between my hands…
The mug pulsed between my hands, layers upon layers of warmth radiating out from the glass and into the chilly air. Drifting over the landscape of my lips, the smoky wisps of Jasmine and Chamomile rolled about, tumbling up along the arch of the nose and into the brow and the eyes — deep, wild lakes bordered with deep, dark forests. And then away, and away the vapours went, mounting in their desire to return to the thin air above.
Then the wind, with her hundred gnarled and frosted hands, groped at the delicate wisp of jasmine and chamomile, until they shimmered white in the air like bones against earth, almost blinding, too far away to be pitied. What was fair had no match for what was wild and unkempt and childishly contrary.
The rim of the glass embraced the rim of lips. And in an ecstasy, the flowery elixir was poured forth, cooling momentarily before cascading down, down into the depths of an unknown chasm, deeper and darker than the beginning of time, when all creatures of sky and sea were still in deep slumber. The crone of the wind shrieked in resentment and envy — robbed, stolen of her only shielding against the cold, into the open air she wuthered, up and away through the cracks of the windowsill.
