This tea is for drinking
There’s something about sitting on the floor, cross-legged, with a rug underneath you
My grandmother has aged into a sweet, ripe persimmon
The fruit that lines my kitchen’s windowsill is an ode to her
Growing up, water was for looking at and for drinking
She greets me every morning with a kiss
There’s something about sitting on the floor, cross-legged, with a rug underneath you
The fruit that lines my kitchen’s windowsill is an ode to her