Dec 3, 2020
2 min read
Tea at 4 o’clock
A poem
The tea colors my body brown
like the soil in which it grows
in the cold hills of Limuru.
I brought with me enough
packages to last the length
of immigration.
A small part of home.
Poetry, stories, and experiences of immigrants, travelers, and people who push, defy, live above and beyond borders in and out of their personal lives
