It came in the form of how her words now ceased to fall - unbidden and uncontrolled- from tipped-over tea kettles to the bottom of mouthfuls of soon-to-be over-brimming cups.
After the drinking deed was done- dirtily dyed with tannin, dizzily drunk off of theine-
the cup would be held by the curved handle for the reading, keeping its round base close and warm to the palm.
There would be prophecies in the patterns formed by the scattered lexicon of boiled leaves. Insight that astounded really when found.
I know she couldn’t have had swirled them on her own.
Not even if she’d tried.
Last I saw her she was doing just that- reaching for her far-sighted glasses, fiddling through her tight-knitted pockets - and I caught again the mutter she seems to have taken to of late:
“There was a poem in here- I must have misplaced.”
That her old chatter-verse is lost is no call for tears.
It would just fall on deaf ears.
27 Nov 06
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everyone must read this.
i had to skip over parts. this is boring. not really anything.
Well. Talk about disparate comments. I seriously doubt that everyone must read this, but I'm willing to venture that there is a little more here than "not really anything" too. So I'd be happy to hear a little more from you both. Reasons why perhaps? But thanks for the feedback.
Oh and the formatting on this sucks. I reposted an edit for it a while back.