A tin of fine herbs
Opened, perfuming the air
Sprinkled into a metal cage
Of weaving wires.
Steaming water
Scalding over me,
Embracing my intense flavor,
Becoming one.

We created a soothing taste
For a while,
But we steeped too long,
He stirred too hard,
And we were made bitter.
The steaming liquid
Was drained from me,
I was no longer left by its heat,
I was left cold.

Then you picked me up,
Swirled these dulled dregs
Around in the cup.
I must ask,
What is it you see in me?
This once potent scent,
Now wasted.

What do you see in the tea leaves?