I know when roses fill her breath,
This morning she's been drinking tea.
I wonder then what were her thoughts -
Of house, of work, or even me.
As honey drips slow off her spoon -
An amber made, not trapping bees -
Under the shade of old live oaks,
Her chair well-set on roots of trees,
She dips her spoon into the cup
To stir the light brown liquid sweet
And closes eyes to hear the air,
Relaxing back in plastic seat.
I see a smile spread through her eyes
As any fear within her dies.