Warm inside my sleepy hand turns a spoon,
the perfect arrangement for my tea.
Mountains reach warn finger up towards the moon.
Luscious water stirs to look back at me,
the spoon dances, holding grip my worries,
mixing honey and sadness with autumn weather.
My tea, is the murky creek telling stories,
whispered and entwined, fading together.
Honey is wet sand: upset then floating down,
trusting gravity to bring it back home.
My creamy white mug is the surrounding town,
bright lights fade out and distant murmurs roam.
Stars mingle with leave, crickets sing a hum,
Warm tea swirls down my throat, leaving me numb.