When, in my cup of tea, I saw love
The tea steams,
and it leaves a ring
of condensation
denoting with transience its firm, sizzling
Life on the table.
The dark, earthy fragrance
wafts high.
Electrifying,
or so, still alone, it hopes.
A battery, an engine
Its fuel begs to combust.
Begs to reach out and embrace,
And excite,
And uplift
both inertial conveyors of life,
vessel and axon alike.
The tea itself, however:
It is embittered.
It is overwhelmed.
And with perhaps greater fervor than it wishes to excite,
it wishes to be
at once excited and swirled and dulled
and lightened and written with white ink
into the book of life.
My tea wants a pour of milk,
and so I oblige.
Have you ever had the
Pleasure & Privilege
Of watching that white love enter the crystalline walls of a dark tea?
I tilt my hand and
pour white ink to life’s volumetric tune.
I almost hear the synesthetic hum.
Hmmm, the tea sighs.
I look on in awe.
At first, nothing.
Then, a hint of motion.
A fractal’d cloudfront climbs the walls
with swirls for fingers, pillows for toes.
The clouds of clarity
Make all of the sense, and none of it either.
The smell subtly changes
as they now hold molecular hands,
in a union opaque to the outside,
but so inevitable from within.
And now I sip my tea,
with an understanding of what grace
May be wrought by
the lovely fusion of my tea with milk.