Along with Lemon and Ginger
by Jackie McClure
“Nothing”
is a failure in observation
brought on, at times,
by the deflated hopes
of the eager in waiting
as if the honey-colored tea
filling the glass cup
on the oaken surface of a table
were to suddenly take the stage
and explain
its bright and gory origins,
of how it was plucked,
green-leafed and oblivious
from under a glowing sun,
then rootless, might have wished
to wander, but instead withered,
shoulder-to-shoulder
with the most aromatic
but unintelligible of companions.
I will spare you
the parts about chopping, darkness,
damp pungency, so you, too,
will brighten when you remember
again the cup, the honey-colored tea
when you say nothing.