For my Dapir
She holds the teacup to her lips,

gold-rimmed, a protective eye of tea leaves,

cardamom swirling, a caldera

of hidden depths; divination in the debris.
Honey-drenched, rose-scented,

stories run through my mind like sepia,

her voice dark like tea as it steeps.

Her face is cast bronze by a veil of light

shining through the lace curtains.
She cries into the brew, tells of her troubled eyes a

reckoning of tears. What her eyes have witnessed. 
There are quiet moments like these,

where tea soothes and there is nothing left to do

but to listen, sit, sip together,

watch mountains bloom and tides change

in our teacups.