Gold Tins

Inside this wood I keep pocket universes, in tins, collected
Dried, infused, divided, labeled. Poetry.
First a category sings, Green, Black, White, Oolong,
And becomes a voyager’s lullaby:

                                Sisters
                            Sikkim and
                    Darjeeling, Cousin Assam
            is a monsoon, thick soil, weathered,
                    sand, pocketed breeches,
                          bracing malt for the
                                New Day;

                                        The Earl
                          bartered with a mandarin,
                      exchanged secrets about the oil of
                  bergamot and Ceylon. His Lady marked
                          with subtlety, infused a
                                    lighter shade;

                                                Lapsang
                                      spun in dragon’s
                                breath, catching the back of the
                                  throat. Suchong-smoke of the
                                      pines, high and hiding
                                              In the valley
                                                  Mist;

                      Petals opened
              their gentle mouths to the     
          night. Lay fresh over the green,
        breathed on the leaves and traced
              Jasmine inside each packet,
                          waiting to
                            exhale;

                                  And the whitest,
                        with the promise of healing,
                  Young shoots left pale, and weakest
                        in water. Budding children,
                                  softest and pure;


The paper words become glass,
A spyglass for unfamiliar breath-stealing homes,
Doused in names, heritage, age-old knowledge;
I am a Bard-
Rat in Venice, mouse inside a
                    mahogany panel wall,
A mosquito flitting
through nets and
banana leaves,
                      A cockerel, looking up
                      through bamboo bars.

I am displaced in year and settle into foreign trees.