The Japanese House and Garden
The tea kettle cries, hot and steaming,
like our mothers’ get-togethers
in the compact, calm tea houses.
Drinking in new gossip,
the mother’s laugh and gasp. Today, it is
quiet sipping.

My hand pours the water,
as we sit in the weathered tea house.
Our dresses drape our legs,
as conversation floats.
Husband? Children? Mother?
Simple answers follow
quiet sipping.

Questions flatten like the paneling,
revealing silence.
Soft smiles grow,
trying to revive fallen conversation.
The tea, hot in the pot, we pour over,
quiet sipping.

Glass cups lie on the floor.
Tea drops cool, as saucers sit empty.
We stand and wave goodbye. Soon again,
we will talk
as our mothers did, gossiping and laughing.
The door shuts, the teapot hisses as I sit, yearning.
I quietly sip, and weep.