Mourning Tea

 I’d like to drink roses for my mourning tea

And scent my days with velvet memory

of things insubstantial, forgotten and old

- of dust, of earth,

 and mysteries untold.

I’d conjure within these primal mists 

streams of spectral prescience

where flesh, and breath, 

and dormant mind

transcend the early

 bonds of time

And I, above my fragrant cup,

would linger, entranced, while I sup;

For through the steam,

I’d almost see

 your smiling face,

across from me.