will brew memory
as from a teabag
out of the past
the door, half-open, turquoise color
this feeling needs a word.
I wanted to say the right word
to bring to the surface water
no longer occult, but gushing, colors
of the future as much as the past
essence of a teabag.
The origin of tea
Bodhidharma sat in silence, not a word
about sleep, or the past
about wind, or rain watering
of the sky’s blue coloring.
Trying to stay as awake as a wheel of color
needing caffeine, inventing tea
tearing off his eyelids, sleep’s memory
tossing them with a word
so they sprouted, watered
by tears of the past.
This is the plant’s origin, in the past
beneath Asia’s dome of brilliant color.
the earth, brew hot tea
a calligraphic line, a word
mantra, gatha, memory.
Peace should be more than a memory.
What we did in the past
we can forgive, release the word.
Polish our kindness like mineral colors.
Drink your tea
more delicious than water.
Water holds its own memories.
Tea transcends future and past.
What is this color—the clearest word.