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.

-M.E. InkOwl