Packing Tea For David Hall (rev)

Dearest Donald Hall of Kensington, Massachusetts,
I packed your tea today.
I watched every leaf and stem
roll like dirt and stones
from a corroding mountain.
I imagined how they would open in your cup,
and how you would think of words to describe them,
such as "flowering" and "rain-wet".

Mr. Hall, perhaps
my tea would appear
in your poems!

I filled your bags delicately,
all of those hearty Keemuns,
and chest-heaving Yunnans -
What are you doing
drinking such dark teas,
Donald?

I was going to copy down your address
(and I’d be the most gentle stalker)
when I noticed that you are a David,
a painter, a carpenter, a businessman,
a Massachusetts man with no relation to Donald at all.

I imagined you finding tea at your doorstep
in the morning, and brewing it in the late evening,
smeared yellow oil on your cheek,
a hammer in your back pocket,
your briefcase tired and opened.

I hope you find the Christmas cookies
hidden between the pages
of your receipt.