Poems to Utur

In the quiet mornings, she sips her tea,

A collection of flavors, each a memory:

Chamomile whispers peace, lavender brings rest,

Earl Grey with bergamot, a lover’s breath, confessed.

When she can’t sleep? She drags out the turmeric and malde verde.

He, in contrast, used to cling to his black coffee,

No cream, just a touch of sugar, a bitter symphony.

Each sip a reminder of life’s raw edge,

No softness, no cushion, just the unrelenting dredge.

Her teas, delicate as she, fragile porcelain,

Cradle warmth, a fleeting comfort against the storm.

His coffee, stark, in a chipped, blackened mug,

A reflection of his soul, hardened, rough.

She misses the smell. Now if she makes it the cup stays untouched.

Next to the extra crispy bacon, the pork she refused to eat.

She brewed teas from gardens unknown,

Exotic leaves, strange blossoms, a world within a cup.

A ritual of solace in a life of mundane.

The table empty, just last December,

Their battleground, a dance of contrasts,

Her sweetness, his bitterness, a dance unchoreographed.

The air thick with unspoken words, like morning fog,

A silence that screamed louder than their ghosts.

The color to each others life.

Now all that’s left is monotone, technicolor life.

Coffee untouched, a final sip never taken.

A smile, serene, on lips long acquainted with sorrow,

for now she has to live, live full , and live for him.

The man who used to count the days to retirement down to the hour.

The retired Marine.

The pastor with a PHD.

The rhino lover.

His eyes, open, gazing beyond tomorrow. Some place in the Saivo, just too far to reach.

He is still here , in the woodpecker at the park.

In the puffy clouds shaped like ravens in the sky.

Football is too hard to watch, but it wont always be ,

Ravens! or be damned!

In his cup, she found a humid floral leaf,

One she did not place.

Sleigh bells ring . . . faint joiking in her heart.

A token from her teas, she herself did not place.

A fragile symbol of a connection unvoiced.

Her tears mingled with the remains of his coffee,

A bitter brew, flavored with grief and love unspoken.

She drank it all, the last of his essence,

The bitterness, the sweet aftertaste of a life entwined.

In that final sip, she tasted the gore of reality,

The sharp sting of loss, the dull throb of love’s decay.

Their story, like tea and coffee, mixed and muddled,

No rhyme, no reason, just deep grief rendered brew.

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