The red teapot

The words keep coming

and when they do

I have to write them down

there is no other option

they are the singing echoes

in the corners of my heart,

after all.

Last night I made tea

in my favourite red tea pot

and opened the back door

to look out at the evening sky.

I listened for the sound of your singing

and thought of the letters

from a thousand miles away.

The music plays on.

Works into my heart and slides down into my bones.

I think of your hands.

Two measures of tenderness

that have returned to me once more.

I turn,

smile,

and

drink

my

tea

from

the

red

teapot

I

love