Black tea
White snow
And the earthen rests of each
Make up the scale of this quiet day
Retreating from the cold blowing
Of thoughts titled “Can” and “Can-Not,”
I steeped, then poured
Then sat at the kitchen table
Watching thick flakes fall,
The laggards of the bunch
How simple, this clearing came
Swiped down like a pine
Beneath the axe of some flannel-clad viking
While I can sit here and imagine
The bright warmths are beautiful,
But it is the dark warmths that love
The blanket, the socks,
The ruddy cup of tea
Beating ceramic against my fingers
I sit here, drinking the dark,
Watching the light fall like stars
And put myself at ease
Between them
benjam1@stolaf.edu
