The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Spring Tea

Gently arrives a small box of
moon-withered leaves from 
an ancient tea forest-
so begins extractions of
childhood memories and 
fragments of floral fruits
and asparagus sap sweet as
the tall backyard grass I once
nibbled before my trichomes flushed
and I grew over and fell riven
by the weight of my beliefs.

Between the sips are invitations
to let moments linger in lightness 
pondering how pleasantly I am perturbed
into feeling my youth and the rush
of warm liquid as bitter eddies bloom 
into spiced nectar and untensioned nerves,
bathing in the beauty of the background hum
of a universe tolling while I am away.
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