The sound of stripping boughs stirs in a dream,
Leaves plucked and prepared for tapering steam.
Thy senses awaken, ravenous beasts,
Satiated by boiling, liquid feasts.
Darling china cups, looking sugar spun,
Perched, gathering dust, till the tea is done.
And the table must be clear for the drink,
Aside from the vases with rosebuds of pink,
Awaiting the whistle, too long to bear,
Silent, aside from the creak in my chair.
The kettle calls, I move, roused by the din,
And out, the nectar comes, hotter than sin.
Slowly it steeps, so graceful and tender,
Bitter and rich, it fills me with splendor.
