Tea Morning

Even though it was raining
she tried putting the kettle back on
insisting that its blackness

would urge it to remain. The birds
laughed at her, taking wings
from their baskets to unfold

and watching the ivory settle
down on the indigo field. From heaven
someone opened the windows

to let the day out, and all
her buttons dropped to the floor,
clad as she was in nothing

but blue garnished from the sea.
He gave it back to her, rubbing
his knuckles on the concrete

kneading it into play so that
the moths wouldn't get stuck anymore.
They poured tea from their mouths

shooting back dirty looks from their wings
but they were always cranky in the morning.
She still lifted the table to look

for droppings that would suggest presence
a company to hold the house down
from flying into the wind. Oh well;

nothing could keep her from singing at day
even if the kettle wouldn't stick
to the stove and the cat wailed to stop dreaming.