The Way Of The Tea

I mediated without you
But thought about you
As I prepared a yunomi
For a deep green tea.
The path to the sea was stony,
Seven rusty rungs beneath,
And I dreamt that if such moments
Could only become eternal,
The scent of moonlight
On your wrist, and
How you captured the ocean
And all that exists
In sand-dunes and seaweed,
A holding of hands,
Two teacups on a stand
Infused, we said our blood
Would pour green from our caddies
Like contusions on sea-sailing skins,
Like cuttings in photographs
Of a mown lawn’s aftermath,
Futile grass-clippings,
Your lips and this beautiful illusion
I willingly colluded with
As we sat sipping, delicate manners,
Overlooking paddy fields
And a distant wabi-sabi garden
In the Kingdom of Seven Teas.

Yet not everything in this life
Once broken, could be restored;
You can take a plate or a tea-pot,
An ornament, yes, or indeed a heart
Would be repaired if with diligence
Handled, and care,
But not ineffable moments
On a shoreline disappeared;
There’s no glue or sewing kit
Which would unstitch the loss
Nor all the hindrances since,
And so in silence I pour my tea,
As I meditate without you,
Although I thought about you
Without me.

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