crackled with beautiful threads
webbed by years passing well, each line a story
whispered lives of master farmers
distant rocky terraces and trees older than human span
infused with craft and love
hands that hold it now, my hands
likewise display patterns of time, historied wrinkles thinning skin
etched by so many memories, moments beyond recall
always, always there is tea
rain pummels hard the roof
wind throws branches against the walls
creek rushes down the street
darkness hits with an audible thud
leaves aged for nineteen years
rest inside a celadon cup
a swirl of hot water poured and then
in a few moments, tea
some afternoons hover on the edge
a rough pottery cup falls from my hand
spilling dreams across the kitchen table
their brilliance saturates the wooden surface
as it turns live with colors previously unknown
rain drops transform into birds with glassine feathers
that fly through the smazy windows
in a dazzling glitter of reflected phantasmical hue
all vanishes as I retrieve the cup
tea is ready
until I am home, there is tea.
since I have no home, I have tea.
anywhere I dwell is temporary.
cups also; they break, are given away, or simply disappear.
tea remains,
each sip lasting as long as one breath.
that is enough. that is all.
caught outside in beginning pour
trying to run between drops
fleeing inside confused wet
shaking water off hands feet
rain falling harder
roof jumping with noise
curl up in bed hiding
eventually emerge for tea
My mother took me to a tea room.
She promised a special treat.
What kind of tea would it be?
Some tea brought from China, pressed into a cake,
Aged so that it was even older than I?
Some tea from Japan, fine-leafed and green,
Served in a cup more delicate than my dreams?
We entered into ordinary room that tried to make itself special
With cloying incense and scarf-draped lamps.
No other customers, for she had reserved the entirety of the hour.
The server poured us tea,
From a commonplace pot into commonplace cups.
She told us that we were to swirl it once
Then pour it out quickly into a bowl on the table.
A woman came and read our fortunes aloud,
Speaking with a fake Creole accent,
And made us each a taped recording.
I carried mine for years.
The taste of the tea I never drank lingers on my tongue.
Time and memory are fluid,
Running through us with marbled colors,
The psyche as malleable agateware.
The bayous and cypress trees of childhood
Exist vividly alongside now-beloved mountains draped in smoke.
The Shearwater cup that held tea,
Then favorite pan-fired gunpowder green,
From which I sipped early in the musky mornings before grade school,
Sits still on my mind’s shelf with successive handmade tea cups.
The paintings by my father and other local artists I see on the walls,
Together with current pieces of artwork.
The past is never that, though we can try to pretend
And even attempt to banish it from our being.
Better I’ve found, to accept this and embrace a multidimensional life,
Observing the interflow of old and new with detached curiosity.
Such mixture will inform all that we experience, however we decide.
I choose awareness. Let this bring what it will.
All things always in flux.