55: Medicine

In the morning my head aches for it. My head aches and my throat is dry, a furrow digging between my eyes, confusion growing in my mind. The leaf of the plant, picked, steamed, fermented, dried, sorted into many kinds and qualities, brewed in steaming water poured into the cup a precious liquid gem like amber, a perfume, a reminder of imperfection, restorer of purity, charity, romance. If spirit could have substance, reflect light, rest on the tongue, flow and warm the throat, then it would be like tea, a union of sun and earth, light as thought, beautiful and foolish as first love.