A few years ago, a friend sent me a text inviting me to tea. But a typo changed “cup of tea” to “cup of yes”, and I’ve loved the phrase ever since.
When you tilt your gold-rimmed smile, lift the lid,
steam rises and an amber sea swirls deep
in the pot’s warm belly. I am tepid
but colour deepens the longer I steep.
There is an invitation in your eyes
I can’t decline. Pour me a cup of Yes
over roses growing wild across my
saucer. Not prim and proper but honest
as the leaves floating down. I take a sip
and burn, scalded cheeks fill with breath to blow
ripples across your surface. Puckered lips
frown, wait before dipping again below.
But your honeyed look sweetens me, stirs time,
slips my spoon in your cup and yours in mine.