cold tea

in her pointed
shoes, toes squeezed
tight, reddened
with cold, she
picked up boxes of strange
black
tea in the yellowed store,
of warm light,
in February, no less,
on a day I was born.
a hard
wind up from the river
snapped
against us,
not enough buttons to go
around.
her black hair pulled tight,
a permanent
fixture, as I would
find out,
pinned atop her head.
she seemed impervious to weather,
or affection.
but it was more
about
the tea that day,
that first meeting, those exotic
blends stacked
in boxes
on glass shelves
that held her interest,
orange and pear,
the porcelain cups
and saucers
from china, from Russia,
not me.