A Nice Cuppa Tea

This cup, like the rising of the sun,
Heralds the new day. A smile
To greet tasks left undone.
And those anew, can wait awhile.
As slowly I drink my tea.

Whose hands did pick the leaves
That gave this cup its life?
Did they tire, sit under shady trees,
Just water to drink as they strive
In their relentless task.

And do I know what leaves I drink?
From where they came to be?
My tea cup in my hand while I think.
My thoughts concerned with only me,
As gradually I wake.

No leaves to read, left in the cup.
These bags give nothing away.
Yet still, I search deeply as I sup,
Missing that splattered array.
The memory of dreams forgot.

Now to move and shake off the fog
Of whimsy, those random thoughts
A hindrance. No more to block
The demands of the day. Best just
Move with the tide.

But still, I pause and think of those
Who strive through relentless days.
They only pick the best that grows.
Therein lies their precious wage.
And I raise my cup to them.

I look into my cup, bleary eyed,
But grateful for the chance
To draw breath. Awake, tired
Still. Not ready to join the dance,
The merry stepping out.

J. Newman 15.06.22

See also The Tea Journal by Tony Malone. https://amzn.eu/d/1IKNp3W