a cup of chamomile crepuscular,
my gentle wound, flowers steeping in a 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 meet the coiling
epiphany already of her ear.

a brewing honey storm, passing and holding
the amber-letting cauldron of the year;
a wash of gold undone, in case forgotten;
a promise to be warmly drunk, and often.

//