CCCLIX

There is a simple pleasure in a cup of tea,
a lightness in its thought, a comfort in its heat,
an artistry of smooth simplicity within
its curling steam and varied taste. A golden drink,
it sits like relaxation in the summer sun;
it feels like life and energy in dancing spring;
it warms like memories beside the winter fire;
and laughs like walked-through autumn leaves—a golden drink.
It is a hand to hold when hands have been too cold,
too far away, or held aloft; it is a muse,
a patient guide; it is a social centerpiece,
the place of gathering, the home and dialogue;
it is a silent friend to read to, write with, be
beside in too-late nights and mornings when the earth
is still asleep and other friends are in their beds—
before you have a voice and after night has sucked
your social aptitudes away, it is a steadfast friend.
There is a simple pleasure in a cup of tea—
but frankly, inexpressible in simple terms;
thus, complicated by a series of mixed metaphors
and personifications based on seasonal
clichés and sad, pervading nighttime loneliness,
one seeks, hyperbolizing, to express a point
that’s better left to withered leaves in steaming mugs.