White tea,
aristocrat that once
an emperor’s concubines’
slim fingers plucked
at dawn, dew-drenched
upon the mountainside,
rare oriental pearl, its
scent so subtle and precise
defies analysis,
is pure delight.
Within the amber
liquid lapped in
palest porcelain
tipped leaves uncurl
to leave a taste
upon the lips divine,
meanwhile like
mist or smoke
steam rises from the cup,
its wraiths unfurl
about its lip,
become a fragrant
kiss, a lover’s tongue
that seeks a loved one’s
tongue to touch
gently, tip to tip.
Pete Crowther
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/white-china-tea/
