I drink white tea with a hint of blueberry that comes
in a white tea bag in a light blue package, and I wrap
my hands — my hands that are too small to hold my
mug in one hand — as much as I can around the
plump, ceramic midsection of my own personal
blueberry-white-tea lake. It is spring and my room
is cold, but I am warm under my tan fleece blanket
that still smells like its packaging. I wonder if it’ll
ever go away and take another sip of tea. It is hot in my mouth
but warm going down, and the bluberries spring from
my stomach as an afterthought. I do not think I’ll do much
today. I’ll watch the sun travel through the air and land
on my favorite blade of grass which I love so much. I’ll watch
my favorite chickadee perch on the branch of my favorite
tree and whistle whistle whistle and fly. I’ll watch the wind
catch on the leaves and caress them into a giggle until
some of them can’t take it anymore, and they faint, and it
is fortunate that the ground is kind enough to catch them.
I’ll sip from my mug and pretend I don’t exist and
that nothing about me matters
except for my favorites, my feelings,
and my tea.