tea

there are loves that simmer

brooding in the fetal curl

of a long-suffering gestation

because there are suns that linger

in ellipses of orbits

lightyears of lives

in faraway curves

then the star returns

and the tiny seed stretches

upward to feel its warmth

* * * * *

there once was a silent sea

that lived in a tiny kettle

it was left to abide on a frozen stove

(water in metal upon stone and wood)

’til one day the scratch of phosphorus

and the friction of ignition

beckoned the flames awake

(turning wood to fire

stones to lambent shoal)

they rubbed the idle liquid into motion

and the once placid expanse

burst into roiling waves

one on top of the other

until the swell arose and

poured forth

into the tiny cup awaiting

and the sea made love to the tea

* * * * *

there are some teas, and some seeds, who remain undrunk and unblossomed, never knowing the sea. They may substitute ponds or lamps (for the ocean and the sun), but they know the tiny bulge under fallow soil is speaking to them of unborn glory, of hyaline devotion.

The kind of love that makes tea from stars.