Malty, bright and voluptuous,
the tea meets me this morning,
and though I’m alone, the kitchen
is filled with other hands—the
potter’s, for instance, that threw
and trimmed and pulled and glazed
this favorite mug into mugness.
And the hands of the harvesters
in India who gathered the fresh green leaves
of the second flush, then
spread them on a tray and left them
to dry in the sun. And who rolled the leaves?
And who gathered them after they aged?
I wrap both hands around the mug
and inhale the musky scent of tea
and marvel at how much humanity
went into this simple cup. I stare
at my knuckles, my fingers, my palms.
It’s your turn, I tell them.
Serve the world well. Can you make something
so bold, so strong?