The day rose with shivered light, bees braiding a path before his eye had even opened. Rose the woman, resonant as a struck cello. The beekeeper entered his kitchen among the crumbs from dinner, all taste a light on the tongue. Blind, but it was only light, bees blurring past, . . .
Tea, No Sympathy
Bigelow brews up basic black; Lipton warms with its touch of tart Tuscan lemon. But I see these aren't your cups of tea. With them, you get no yin, no yang, no sweet and bitter blend of Golden Flower, no accents of lanky Jasmine Fairy Maidens quick to unfold their charms in the . . .
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