with love for Robin M. Weintraub z"l
I sip my lukewarm yellow mug of grief tea,
wonder, should I microwave it up again?
Got cold so quick and this cup is
gone, rather, this cup’s worth, at least,
the hawthorne berries, tulsi, oatstraw, mint—
there’s maybe one more evening in the fridge
I’ll find I’ll know the right time to drink it
and God knows there’s always more to steep
My waves of you peak softer, further apart,
like birthing in reverse—no—like ripples
making their way, unlost, infusing deep
