I like pouring honey into my morning tea.
Honey, stretching out languidly
After a relaxing evening in its pitcher.
Honey, sparkling and winking at me
As if to say,
“Hey check this out!
As it reaches dramatically for the liquid
Inside my ceramic mug.
Then honey, in all of its vintage magic,
And all of its cheeky charm,
Performs a single perfect cannonball
Elongated into flips and twirls
And rather arrogant spins
Inside my tea.
Then it melts,
Losing its flexible shape,
But resurrects itself
On my tongue,
Where it blossoms