the rosy tea of the hibiscus flower
was poured out in a dream.
wasn't every Spring a dream then
we were in when radiance streamed
through the dusty windows?
and we found violets as if
for the first time.
I will pour hibscus tea from a rosy teapot
till the day I die
it's poetry, isn't it?
sighed the child.
and I smiled, yes...
mary angela douglas 31 january 2015
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