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On the terrace of my room in the tower ancestors drink tea in the snow. Lately I awaken to feel them rushing for some high and holy day, suitcases open, dresses, tuxedos, gifts, bouquets, before they vanish. They remain, and the Royal Cauldron tea set, chai, cakes, oranges. Fur coats over nightclothes, eyes blue flames in silver shadows. Lawrence leans against door frame and smokes a cigar. Good path down the road, he says, and the doors are open at the Manet hotel. He holds The Forest, dark oil, to hang in the corner. Ancestors turn and stare. In his eyes they are invisible: the tea, and the lady setting out glass bottles, amber, sapphire, emerald, air.
