the
slow drip
of accumulated
moisture,
sliding
from
leaf to leaf
accentuated
by clear
bell-like bird
calls

myriad
shades of
green
and brown,
glistening
in sharp
shafts
of smoking sunshine,
that shifts at
each
wind's gust

far from the sidewalk
and
rat race running
we immerse ourselves
in primitivea
trekking
along tracks
seeking nothing more
than
the next step
the next vista,
revelling in our
cavemanesque
selves

We
unwind,
leaving
ribbons of
stress to
flutter
behind us
before
they
disappear
into mist
and then
become
zephyr
breeze
breaths
Each step
lighter
unburdened
we become more
fae and less
humane...
Working
not for the
daily bread
or even
the
eating
of it
But we come
for the
presence of the green
the prior
in ourselves.
the interaction
Simple cell
recalling
simple cell
and sighing
in relief
at finding
friend.

So wr
as our
collection
of priors
find places
mordial
and gather
to worship
To release
The inner
covers
of civility
and stand
in the grace
of the green

The little blue teapot was exactly that, small,
enough for a sant two cups of tea
or an almost generous mug

In saying it was blue,
It was a comforting
royal shade,
with a shining glaze
Stoutly round
With a sphere as
the top notch  handle
All in all
a cheery
little thing
Cheap
and
utilitarian

How many cups
had it processed:
delivered
with a
drip or dribble,
that was at first annoying,
but
eventually
becoming
an endearing part
of the overall charm of the piece

It would be generous to say
millions;
But
truthful to say
thousands
of  
thousands
As the age of the *** was 12+years
of  almost continuous service.
In which time
it had been
witness
to every
emotion.
Conversations baring
soul and psyche.
Mental discombobulation
and
emotional acrobatics that would  easily gain
employment  with
Circe de Soleil
All whilst sitting  solidly still
  on the table of the day.
The little blue teapot was simply
a background character
in the soap opera
of it's family
and their friends

And
because of this,

It's
sudden
shattering
demise,
upon the slate floor yesterday.
Brings forth this eulogy to an everyday object  
Considered
by many
to be just
a thing
But to this family
a treasured piece
of daily routine.

Reached for
with
muscle memory.
A dash of color
at breakfast,
Comfort
on a cold night
A genies lamp
to a
small boy's
growing imagination.
A gift
from
one friend
to
another,
for the
shared  cup
of
Russian Caravan Tea
and a chat
that set the world to rights,
at least for another day
or two.

The little blue teapot was exactly that,
Ordinary
But also;
So much more
than it
purported to be.
So...
so
much more.