She sits unaware and sips her tea.

Her rich luxuriant hair is tied up in a bun

But leaves the nape of her neck exposed.

The hairs on her neck sweep upward

Like a lion’s mane

Except for a few stragglers sticking straight into the air like flags.

Her face inclined thoughtful downward,

Her large dark eyes are half covered by large lids with extended lashes


As if in part looking inward into mysterious depths. 

Her mouth is half open

As if it had just been kissed

Or she had just held some object there,

The space still longing for what had filled it.

The tea steam rises and gently places drops on the hair above her lip

Like the fuzz on a peach freshly taken from the fridge,

Moist and ripe for eating.

The dark hairs along her arm

Rise up as if moved by a breeze,

But it is my breath

That’s blowing.

I raise her hand to my lips

And kiss the upturned palm in the early morning sun.