Tea of Sadness

 I have sipped the tea of sadness,

its leaves infused with jasmine.

I had tasted a hint of it before, blended and subtle.

Now, after the death of my sister,

I drink its pure, undiluted emotion.

I did not buy this tea–it was given to me,

regifted several times and almost discarded.

I thought I would not like it, so I left it

unopened and forgotten 

in its black lacquer package.

It is aromatic and delicate,

brewed in boiling water, tempered with cool

so that it does not become bitter;

steeped to infuse the deepness of its flavor

but if left unattended, overpowering. 

I find the pale, green liquid strangely comforting

its language as unfamiliar to my tongue

as the Chinese characters printed on the tiny canister.

Yet, it soothes the turmoil deep within,

this tea that tastes of sadness.