Tea at the farm


She stood in the door of her house,

of farmhouse in the west.

She watched the birds fly away

side by side, abreast.

The stallion behind the fence,

now a horse, stomped his foot.

Eating grass, staring at the calm brook.

Sky the shade of blue and red,

hues of purple all across.

The crimson shade the copy

of tea kettle, afar.

In the suites, on the small round table,

A kettle and a jar.

Two saucers, two cups,

jar of oat cookies.

In anticipation, she looks;

the contents on the table.

She peeks outside,

he must not be far.

A white cat purring at her feet,

the feet wearing sandles,

From Russia a treat,

month of May, afternoon of 16th.

That seller on the streets of Cordoba said,

“Señor. Made in Rusia, pure leather.”

Ring on the phone inside,

she rushes, foot tripping nearly by the side,

a leopard skin mat on the floor

“Hello?” asks impatiently.

“Don’t wait for me,” says a voice.

Familiar it is, the voice.

Hello hello, the frantic shouts.

Motionless she stood as if seen a ghost.

Redial and redial a hundred times.

Brushing her feet against the wooden floor,

like a lifeless being.

The tea….the tea must have grown cold.

I shall warm it up once again, she thought.

And the cookies I will store..until you reach.

The sound of horn in my ears,

will soon reach.

The sky is turning dark you see,

the animals going back.

You should hurry up it’s not safe,

after dark. Outside a bunch of bandits in ambush, they stay.

Last month the neighbor’s boy looted

on his way,

has not recovered the shock yet.



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