Oolong

Centuries ago, the moon fell
in love with a comet which blazed

then burned away into nothing. I
don't know if this is true. Perhaps, 

even now, no one notices her plain but 
beautiful countenance. Tea leaves darken 

in their little gauze tent, and the water 
begins to amber. Why should I feel ashamed 

to write about such a small pleasure? Shawls 
of milky fog wrap around the mountains. 

In the norning, tea-pickers gather withered 
leaves for steaming and drying, and marvel:

the merest brush with heat blooms a little
film of joy that spreads on your tongue.