White tea, <br />aristocrat that once <br />an emperor’s concubines’ <br />slim fingers plucked <br />at dawn, dew-drenched <br />upon the mountainside, <br />rare oriental pearl, its <br />scent so subtle and precise <br />defies analysis, <br />is pure delight. <br />Within the amber <br />liquid lapped in <br />palest porcelain <br />tipped leaves uncurl <br />to leave a taste <br />upon the lips divine, <br />meanwhile like <br />mist or smoke <br />steam rises from the cup, <br />its wraiths unfurl <br />about its lip, <br />become a fragrant <br />kiss, a lover’s tongue <br />that seeks a loved one’s <br />tongue to touch <br />gently, tip to tip. <br /> <br /><br />Pete Crowther<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/white-china-tea/
