Memories of a Winter’s Remedy

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Christian Williams (He/Dey/Dem)

Grasping my hot, honey sweet tea,

My purple fingers, bruised like palm, and what I believe to be tips, 

folded at each corner,

My numb skin aching with each press of hot porcelain,

During the winter cold, spills a memory; it scolds

from when our skin was soft and faces soon to frown,

till when we grow old, our eyes begin to crow and segmented skin to fold,

And again begins the winter bruise and ache of hot and cold,

Listen for the clicking, the steaming, the kettle tipping, My stiff, creaking fingers gripping, 

And finally my soft sipping,

Of honey sweet tea.


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