Saturday, October 2, 2010

Matcha in October

October comes,
And the leaves turn a golden russet.
The mail truck drives
Through a flutter of breezes.
Inside, gray wool worn until soft,
Brushes across my cheeks,
Its slight weight on my shoulders.
As I hold the warm bowl of tea
And bring the first sip to my lips,
You lie conch-like across my lap.

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