|Tea by Mary Cassatt (1890)|
Sometimes I forget to end the day,to draw the covers of the night upto where my open mouth breathes inthe whisper of an idea.A professor friend once counselled meto remember how rare an idea is.Like a tea kettle, it does not boilwhile you stand yearning,your hand wrapped around cup and strainer.Like a butterfly, the idea flirtsaround just as you want tea and sleep.Then, I cancel day's end, and follow.
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© 2021 Susan L. Chast