a cup of chamomile, my open wound
crepuscular, flowers steeping in the dream
her springing forth, her taste exquisite autumn
my speculative, formidable apple

the steam is real, the stirring consequential
the presence of the absence of a pear
the buds are breaking up to touch the coiling
epiphany already of her ear

a brewing honey storm, holding and pressing
the amber-letting cauldron of the year
a chalice of molten golden, in case forgotten
a promise to be warmly drunk, and often

//