High Tea

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I’m holding Grandma’s cup of tea
bone china, gold rimmed flowery.
I close my eyes and touch my chest
rubbing my chin, grey hairs stubbly.

To teach me honor, was her quest
my time spent with her, I was blest.
She loved her tea, spiced of Darjeeling.
Hours – in me – she did invest.

Soft words spoken, never snarling
never heard her once quarreling.
Only a smile on her face
as ’twas true, I was her darling.

Some say time heals, but can’t replace
Grandma’s splendor of high tea graced.
Nor the touch of her warm embrace
Nor her touch of the warm embrace.

Day 18: NaPoWriMo Prompt: A Persian Ruba’i Poem

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