The tea is jasmine, pale
green in the white cup.
She holds it with both
hands, elbows on the
balcony rail.
Below, a street sweeper
hisses past. Above,
clouds drift like slow
boats. The light is
butter-soft, touching
everything gently.
She doesn't think about
yesterday. She doesn't
plan tomorrow. Her
shoulders drop, one
inch, then another.
The steam rises, a thin
ribbon. She watches it
vanish — no clinging,
no grief.
In the quiet, a sparrow
lands, hops twice, then
flies off. She sips.
The world hums along,
unhurried.
Nothing needs me right now.