In China someone closed your leavesin tiny fists that grip the smokethat dried you. A world away I waitby another fire. The cup waitswith me. The little blue dragonthat lives in my stove does his work.The kettle begins to singthe one note of its one song.The day becomes itself beyondthe glass of the kitchen window.I pour the kettle and you becomeagain yourself, but haunted nowby memory of a distant fire.In this steam rising as smokeI remember myself, who I was,before I knew all night the flames,before I tasted you, or knew your name.— Michael Dechane