The mountains were kings that rose to blue
With no place about them even in thoughts.
They had slopes that interminably grew tea.
The mountains had tea women in rain clouds.
They hung precariously on the garden’s end.
Some hung in improvised tents at the edge;
Sold green tea in plastic bags for rain times.
The place made women in the white clouds.
They sold steaming momos in chill hill place
And warm dark tea to go with the white stuff .
The momos warmed stomachs and lost souls
To make them feel less alienated from place.