Tea and Thee

Today I am nto having tea. The way I love it. English breakfast tea with cream and sugar, with toast lavished with butter and marmalade. I am not having tea today. Your tea is different. I sneak, I stand over you as make it. I see that each step is important and that to you, making tea is an art. It is meditation. The tea itself is beauty. I stand on tiptoe and open the container and the scent of it wafts up into my nostrils, tickling them, unexpected, making me dream. The smell of Cardomon shakes me up. I was not prepared for it. I see you shyly smile as I regain composure.

You boil the water, fresh water. It seems so. The air escapes the kettle hissing like a spoiled woman that you aren't attending to quickly enough. "Come, come on you silly man" The kettle hisses. I hate it for a moment, that it gets your attention, and touch. You grab it and pour it and as you pour your sweet breath comes softly from between your lips and sends part of the steam away.

The liquid is infused. It develops before my eyes like a photograph. Deep amber, deep smart, hard and hot amber the room is incensed with you. Your tea you call it, from your country. I hide behind my hands angry, peeved. You tell me stories of tea, of Samovars and nights of Hafiz and Sufi saints. Rumi and tea. I am jealous I refuse your offer of a sip.

You smile at me. Your black eyes full of humor. You know I will come to you, in a moment. In awhile. I can't resist your gentle way with tea, and words. I do snuggle against you and smell the tea on your breath as you talk about the Caspian sea. I fall asleep as you recite poems into my ear. The amber tea is reflecting the sun as I slip off. My anger assuaged. You arm under my head. Soon you are snoring too.

This poem is for all tea lovers. Lovers of poetry and long nights of stories.
This poem is for good health and a strong heart.

Enjoy