TEA WITH HAMLET

In the delicate days since his disappearance,
I've noticed you have my friend's hands:
White flowers.
Your eyes, too, are his:
Stones, ink, the color of pine trees lining a December horizon,
With great, grey clouds behind.
Rain falls down,
Luring the soil up to herself,
Crickets huddle along the hillside,
Your breathing drifts
Into restless breezes.

I whispered undercover words into your ear--
A strange new impulse,
It might have happened then,
Except you closed your eyes.
I lost hold of you,
Dispersing wings of many colors:
Soiled linen, hoary white, blush of flesh.
All night the raindrops tumble.
I sip the tea, our tea, from this delicate porcelain,
a gift in my clumsy hands.
Beyond the gates,
a young shrub shifts soundlessly
into white flower.

Copyright ©2007 by Christina Hile