Hepzibah prays as she makes the tea
She never looks at her hands
She hurls in spells
And hornéd shells
And her sighs fuel the flames

Her fingers pinch the leaves-
Two sharp tweaks shot
Into the pot
Like bullets from a pistol

Then Hepzibah sings as she stirs the tea
The water does not quiver
But is smoothed into whirlpools
Steady and smooth; this little ocean is her footstool
And the cave above her, her cathedral

Old Hepzibah is silent as she pours the tea
She breathes in long through her nose
She closes her eyes
Permits the flames to die
And lets the light fade out on the stones


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