Posts Tagged ‘tea’


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

Read Full Post »

Tonight I Want to Hold You

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.

Read Full Post »


Tonight, courage is the voice

of the mint tea as it lends its strength,

its green to the water.


It’s no small thing

to infuse something else

with warmth, with sweetness.


All day, I’ve wanted to be bolder.

All day, I’ve felt unsure

of what comes next.


The mint says yes, says drink,

says rest. Says, a small kick

can do a lot. The mint says,


one way to get stronger

is patience. It soothes me,

it helps me to sit


and feel what I feel

this smooth tea—

subtle, strong enough.


Read Full Post »

Drinking Assam Tea



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?


Read Full Post »




Because I can’t make things better,

I offer you tea. I am grateful when you accept.

The night holds us both

as we sit in the kitchen,

your voice a small boat

in an ocean of ache.


Because I can’t fix the problems,

I cover you with a blanket

when I see you are shivering,

though I know your shudders

have little to do with cold.

Still, it feels good when you pull

the white throw around you,

as if for the moment you’re protected.


I think of the Queen of Sheba,

how she learned to be grateful

for falling. How, in the dark,

she found her own light within,

then rose up and shared

this pearl with the world.


Because you are hurting,

I listen to you, would listen

all night, would listen all week.

I offer my whole attention.

And as you find in yourself

the light that is there,

I marvel as you marvel

at your own wisdom, your

own strength.

I listen. I nod.

I pour you tea.




Read Full Post »

One More Lesson




while pouring tea for failure,

I forgot to add the tea—

we drink the hot water together and laugh

Read Full Post »

Damn Thirsty




Scent of Darjeeling

escapes through

the poem’s cup—

from miles away

you smell it,

twist of citrus,


try telling your thirst

it’s just words,

the delicate

flowering in the air,

the warmth

of the cup,

the fruit

making merry

on your tongue.

Read Full Post »

That Dry Feeling




In his heads, he swirls

the dark loose leaves

of his thoughts,

lets them boil

and steep too long,

then offers the tea

to others to drink,

but it spills before

the tea reaches the cup,

and he fumes,

throws in more leaves.



Read Full Post »




We should have each other to tea, huh? We should have each other with cream.

“Lovecats,” The Cure



Perhaps you don’t like tea.

Perhaps you don’t like cream.

It’s not what’s in the cup that matters,

though of course there’s the lovely

unfurling of leaves and the way

that the water accepts what

it’s been given. But no.

It’s not about the tea.

It’s the ritual of the pouring that matters.

It’s the sharing from a single pot

and the all that is said and

the all that is seen as we sip.

We can fill the pot with water.

We can fill the pot with wine.

All that really matters is

that we take the time to sit

together and slowly drink—

we, two separate beings who

are choosing at the same time

to accept the same thing into ourselves.

It’s a little bit like love.





Read Full Post »

That’s Right




I’ve shown up naked

to tea. I know it’s not

the proper thing to do.

In fact, I am a bit surprised

myself to be wearing

nothing more than a pink scarf.

I was wearing more

when I left the house.

At least it is soft, the scarf,

and at least it is warm,

the tea. You don’t have

to pretend you don’t notice

and I’ll not pretend

either. No, let’s go on.

Yes, that’s right,

it’s a bit uncomfortable

I suppose, as all things are

at first. We’ll get used to it.

Who knows, maybe

by the time we pass the cream

you’ll have slipped off

your own button up shirt,

your embarrassment, your belt.

Maybe by the time

we get to the bottom

of our cups we’ll wonder

why we ever spent an afternoon

any other way.

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »

%d bloggers like this: