Tea and poppy seeds

Nectar and ambrosia

To a poet seeking meaning

In every little thing

I’ve taken it inside of me

A substitute for drugs

To feed my very soul

When nothing else will do

Tiny vessels of wonder

Drizzled honey, all swirled in dough

Sweet but within modesty

And it reaches my very heart

Wash it down with a dark black tea

Loose leafs all raining down

Telling me some unknown “soon”

How soon? I care not but for the show.

The opiate of a poet

Who is seeking some old release

Within a memory of a past

That is not even hers

Or is it? A question of Easter

Last year or any of her life

This cake a symbol of heritage

And a pride in her humble source

I eat of this cake for a reason

And the tea soothes the pain of its truth

For that past that gave me the recipe

Is unreachable except through its fruits…