A terminal bud
and a few leaves
are loosed by a firm grip
on a tender stem.
Between a finger
and a thumb
and with the tug of a forearm
the young flush snaps.
Rolled and wilted,
displaced, bruised lightly, torn:
the sap is spilt,
and the fresh pick darkens.
Early spring air
with crisp intent
draws a soft breeze: it pulls
the oil and the damp.
A gathering sun
dries the dank green mass,
soothes the macerated leaves.
Centuries pass, and still
this is how we infuse love
with the warm aroma of a promise.
