On chamomile tea

I once sat with you at a cafe in our old home and was sad but we were there and after you left to get us tea, you walked back with a teapot and I asked you what you got and you said chamomile and I said that was weeds. And it was, but I found out that day that I like hot water and weeds. Chamomile is weeds. Like weeds in the ground beside the sidewalk under an old wooden fence in Fernwood weeds. Like weeds in the lawn that you don't want in the lawn weeds. Like the plants with yellow flowers on their ends which turn into fragile globes weeds. These weeds, which have mastered more things than we know, have been plucked, washed, and manufactured as I have been, and they find their way into real evenings occupied by real people with real feelings and they grow back. These fucking weeds grow damn back.