The Smell of Rooibos

I didn't post yesterday, Wednesday, but I did write a poem (I love the Notebook iPhone app!) and couldn't get to the computer before midnight (believe me it was a looonnnnggg day, but I did see The Kids Are All Right in the end so that was alright).

So after the scrambled eggs poem, I decided the inspiration bucket was getting a little weak so I emailed sasqi for a prompt. Luckily, she'd just hit a bump herself in the Poem in November strategy and sent over a few prompts she'd been using, one of which was to write about a smell of something. No sooner had a thought about smelling things did someone sit down at my desk with a cup of Rooibos tea and later out popped this poem.

Then, once I'd finished this draft, I swear I smelled something else: The Tea House in Santa Cruz. Lovely.


The Smell of Rooibos

I could smell he mug of ruby-colored tea
as she sat down at my desk.
That earthy, sickening rooibos tea of my childhood

nanny who had a daughter, Breeze,
and a terrible history of back injury
and illness that I didn't understand
at aged 9 and 1/2.

What that meant for me was a spoon
of horrible, spasm inducing cough syrup
if I did anything as much as wheeze,
standing in the kitchen over her cups
of red bush tea.

The smells spurred an unknown panic
whenever my nose caught their scent.

That is, until, I met the lovely, álainn
glass artist with the cutest blonde pixie cut
and a penchant for red herbal cuppas.

That St. Patty's Day, I'd have likened the smell
of almost anything with loving her,
if only I had the chance.

And now, smelling this old woman's tea
in front of me, I remember the horror,
and then the fun.

Afternoon Tea

Tea

Cups of tea: Late last night. After Moscow Mule, rose wine and Dritos. This morning. With toast, cheese and jam; the computer on my lap, my love at my side.