Memories of Tea
As the blossoms take center stage, a brown-breasted robin keeps me company atop a protruding granite beauty mark in a green meadow. She glances at me from the side of her beak, a trait of her weakness. Her genealogy protecting her from the likes of us straight gazed predators. A glance over my shoulder gives me the view of the back of a squirrel's fuzzy tail. He gives a nod back, and I think I see his tiny paws clasped around a teeny chalice. I am down the rabbit hole as if the sunset were a drop of acid.
The things marching in my mind, pink elephants that guide me in wonder to a land of tea and dandelion seeds, dancing on pointe through the air on the hope-filled breeze of wishes. They delicately hang onto the mysterious utterance of one's soul, pirouetting on its deliverance. The wind continues its steady whisper. The robin understands the wish the courier carries and pipes back incredulously.
The whisper of a secret in my ear can cause fits of giggles or melancholy for the wounded. In this altered reality, the robin doesn’t care for a vain wish, and her side-eye disapproves of my apathy. The squirrel seems to have loosened with the moon’s increasing dominance and promenades a bushy tale as if it were a feather boa accentuating a careless strut. The theatrics a supporting role, in a scene where even the dandelions play a part. Pink elephants billow across a transforming sky retiring into…
