Tea Poems

I.
The seats are strangely cool
            tonight; the tea is not:
it’s yellow-green mass
           coddled in white clay.
New sounds splash on the air,
            and still there’s quiet inside.

II.
Alone, I watch my step walking
a familiar street in San Rafael.

The air tonight is oolong tea—
glowing lights wrap me up,
and tangled blankets shape the horizon.

The stars of evening shine and I
see them, knowing a moment’s peace.

By Jacob Riyeff