On A Winter Morning In Minnesota, I Drink Tea And Think Of Sarah Poem by Leah Browning

The snow falls in petals, as if, just outside
my range of vision, there is a wedding taking place
in the dim blue light of a winter morning.

I memorize each brushstroke of this
painting, the bare branches of our neighbor’s tree
framed by the white lace curtains

of my kitchen window, and brew
a cup of the five-flower tea
that you sent me from Washington.

By the time I fetch the children
from school, every muddy hill
and bank of gray, unmelted slush

will be draped in snow,
glittering blue-white in the cold sunlight.
For supper, I’ll bake potatoes

in the oven and remember how you
cooked for me, on a rainy night
in Seattle, when the five-year-olds

were babies. Ian sat on a chair,
playing guitar, and you sat at his knees
with your flute. Each memory

is its own waltz, separate and yet
intertwined, and as perfectly preserved as
a tea of lavender and chamomile and roses.