I recognized you in the tea this morning,
the twining of black leaves and dried blue petals.
I do not recall what the name of the tea is,
it has been in this cupboard so long, forgotten
in its small clear bag until this morning
when the leaves, like small gnarled hands,
waved to me like you did, was it really so long ago,
or was it just yesterday we became lovers,
oh my love, have we learned—is it always the hard way?—
that to release takes immersion, the scorch of hot water,
that before we can unfurl, we must clench,
that bitter and sweet dance together for a reason—
I can taste it in this cup, this strange ceremony
of steeping, a comforting darkness, the efflorescence of loss.