Tea Time


This poem first appeared in the “Poetic Page” in 1997. I am drinking my morning tea while posting it. My husband made my pot of tea this am so not sure where I’m going…

“Would you like one lump or two?”
I look up, glance down at the cup and saucer
in my hand, the tea deep brown
and steaming.
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
cabin window.

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

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