Strong hands pulling down cool cups.
Steam whistling in the evening air.
A cool rag applied to a burning brow.
I know your hands, as tender as a lark on a branch.
You stir in the tea, silver clinking against mug.
Murmurs of songs long sung touch your lips.
With those hands you pluck a stick of honey, clip off the tip and begin to pour.
Gold streams from the plastic stick, mixing gently into steeping tea.
I smell peppermint.