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Posts Tagged ‘tea’

On Inauguration Day, Amy Serves Me Tea

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on January 21, 2025| 13 Comments »

The clay mug had clearly been broken,
even shattered, then reassembled
with a clear amber glue that allowed
me to see winter sunlight shining through
its walls when I lifted the mug to sip
the rich black tea. I swear, the drink
was even more delicious served
in a vessel so thoughtfully remade.
All day I thought of broken things.
All day I thought of repair. All day
I thought of ways to make beauty
out of what looks, for a time, like despair.

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When My Mother Makes Me Tea

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on April 30, 2024| 3 Comments »


 
 
It is kindness that moves her hand
to flip the switch on the hot pot,
and somehow a movement
that’s merely a flick is transformed
into an act of great love. It is kindness
that helps her choose the mug
she thinks I’d like the most—
not too small, not too big,
not too clunky. Perhaps the one
with pansies. Perhaps the one
that was dad’s. There is kindness
in the way she unwraps the tea bag,
my favorite earl gray, the bergamot
floral and strong. Kindness in the way
she pours in the soy milk,
the kind I like best, organic,
unsweetened, something she would
never drink herself but will always
have on hand for me. And so when
I wake in her bed and she tells me,
I’ve made you a cup of tea,
I know she is also saying
you are so precious to me.
I taste it in every sip, how warm it is,
how generous, the black tea so bright,
the milk so creamy, so smooth. 
even with no sugar, so sweet.

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Some Days It’s Like This

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on June 25, 2023| 4 Comments »

Today it is somehow easy to know I will die.
Meeting mortality feels as possible, as natural
as inviting someone over for tea.
Caffeine or no caffeine, I ask.
Mortality shrugs as if it’s all the same.
I settle on the new tea I bought yesterday,
assam with rose petals. It’s dark and floral
and makes the mouth come alive.
You’re really not afraid of me today?
mortality asks. I shrug and say, Not right now.
We sip from our cups and stare out at the field
where the wind is whipping the tall grasses
in rhythmic pulses. “It’s good,” says mortality.
I nod. And we sit in content silence.
There just isn’t much to say.  
When our cups are empty, mortality
doesn’t leave. It occurs to me then
my invitation to tea wasn’t necessary.  
Mortality was already here.
It moves with me as I rise to clear the dishes,
as I wash the cups, as I walk out
into the wind, into the field.

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On Drinking the Last Cup of Mariage Frères Marco Polo Tea

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on January 24, 2023| 12 Comments »




I didn’t stop what I was doing
to enjoy the exotic red fruity notes,
didn’t pause my busy mind
to cherish the bold dark leaves.
That’s not to say I didn’t love drinking the tea.
I did. Every velvety sip.
And as I pulled the final muslin sachet
from the classic black box lined with gold foil,
I thought of the woman
who had bought me such extravagant tea
and I fell even more deeply in love with her.

I tell myself it’s not wrong
I divided my attention
between the delicate tea
and the generous sun
and the work that I love.
I tell myself they spoke to each other
in the most beautiful morning voices—
all of them conspiring
the way a violin and cello and piano conspire,
the way a poet and a pianist and an artist conspire,
the way strawberry and cocoa
and dark leaves conspire
to create something more from the moment—
an alchemy that only comes when we say yes
in the moment to everything.

Now, when I read those words I wrote,
I taste in them Tibetan flowers.
They wear the fragrance of sunshine,
the bouquet of exotic lands.
Now when I see the empty drawer
where the tea is not,
I dream of how I drank the last cup
as if it would last forever.

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Adjusting to the Change

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on November 12, 2021| 8 Comments »




Just today I didn’t make you
a cup of chai—did not stir
in the dark clover honey,
did not warm the soy milk,
did not bring you the cup
with red flowers, the one
we got in Finland all those
years ago when we couldn’t
sleep with all that light—

instead I pour myself
into the black of morning.
There is sweetness here
in these quiet, predawn hours,
a vastness no cup could ever contain.
I want to serve it to you,
though I sense, love,
it is you serving it to me.

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Earl Gray

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on January 24, 2021| 2 Comments »


 
 
Today the lesson is in the little black leaves
floating freely in the tea, loosened
from their bag. How quickly things come apart—
things I wish would stay intact.
And yet I drink from the dark cup
and find joy in the bold, citrusy warmth.
Though it’s messy, though the bits catch
in my teeth and tickle in my throat,
though it isn’t what I would have wanted,
neither has it ruined the pleasure of bergamot,
the sharpness of lemon, the flavor
of acceptance, of morning.

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Join Me?

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on October 16, 2020| Leave a Comment »

all day I spike my tea

with sky—

is it any wonder

by night I’m singing

love songs

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Nimbu

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on October 7, 2020| Leave a Comment » 

            with thanks to Paula Lepp for the introduction

This morning the Nimbu tea

reminds me there is so much goodness

yet to discover. Three days ago

I’d never heard of Nimbu, Nimbu,

much less tasted the bright citrus shine,

the full and sweet caramel body.

Now I can’t imagine a morning

without it warm and round on my tongue.

Nimbu. Nimbu. Just saying the name

makes me smile. Just a sip makes

me think of all the pleasures yet to come,

pleasures I don’t even know how to name,

pleasures just waiting to be found.

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Setting

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on July 28, 2020| 6 Comments »

In every conversation

there is a table made of listening.

Sometimes the tables are beautiful,

solid, clean—the kind

that can support anything

you put on them.

Sometimes, they’re like

the tv dinner trays

of my childhood—

a little rickety, but they’ll do

if what’s put on them is light.

Sometimes they’re so cluttered

that whatever’s placed on their surface

is almost immediately lost.

Let tonight’s table have a small vase of flowers

and a candle perhaps, nothing else.

May it be small enough we might

see each other’s eyes, might notice

every nuance of breath. Whomever

I am most nervous to invite,

may I invite them. And though

the tea is just a metaphor,

may I offer. May they accept.

Find this poem published in the amazing ONE ART POETRY

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Tonight I Want to Hold You

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , on May 15, 2020| 2 Comments »

the way the hand holds the mug,

the way the mug holds the tea,

the way the tea holds the leaves,

the way the leaves hold the sun,

the way the sun holds everything

the way everything eventually

lets go.

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