“Would you like one lump or two?”
I look up, glance down at the cup and saucer
in my hand, the tea deep brown
I pour in a dollop of cream.
I dwell in a dream world.
The fragrance of freshly steeped full-bodied tea
sends me across the Atlantic
and I sit in the front parlor of
English manor house.
I sit Darjelling cross-legged on a silken
cushion in an Indian palace.
A bag of orange pekoe, a pot of boiling
hot water on a wood stove; I wonder
at mountain vistas outside a rustic
A flower, jasmine, floats in the bowl
of a handleless cup: gently lift it up
with both hands, bow my head in respect
to my kimono-ed host.
Riffle through the cabinet, sort through
boxes and canisters.
Where will vision lead this afternoon?
Read the labels, pick out an Irish tea;
listen to the strains of a Gaelic melody
in the midst of the Emerald Isle.
c. Darlene Moore Berg