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I pick up the dried bulb,
petals bound, place it in hot water,
and wait for my tea to bloom,
watching the shapes of steam
rise from the womb of the glass,
the petals curled towards the center.
Color swims from the dried leaves,
ready to blossom, as I swirl a spoon
around the bowl and imagine my mom
humming as she cradles a mug,
my feet kicking through an ocean,
that soft voice no longer for her.
How she must have given up herself
for who I’d be, with blind faith.
The petals unfold, and water rises
making way for something better
than itself, as I gape at the rebirth
of something I can’t comprehend.