A Poem About Tea
There’s an electric kettle at the office,
so I made a cup of green tea.
Nothing special, just a bag.
The kettle has a window in the side
so you can watch the magic happen.
And it is magic.
I didn’t grow up drinking tea.
My parents and grandparents
were coffee people.
It was living in Japan that
introduced me to “the taste
of dried leaves boiled in water.”
As a teetotaler (teatotaler?)
who doesn’t drink coffee either,
tea was my entry into a more adult world.
Tea requires a bit of preparation,
some particular tools,
and ends in a special vessel.
Later I lived behind a tea shop.
The first time I entered I was overwhelmed.
So many colors and flavors and textures!
Tea with little flecks of gold.
Tea that looked like yard clippings.
Tea with hefty price tags.
Later still I studied tea ceremony,
learned the minute details
of offering tea as a sign of respect.
This morning, though, it was just a bag
from a brand that advertises
on baseball games.
Poured from a shared kettle
into a travel mug whose origin
I can’t even dimly recall.
Just a container of tea
on my desk under the fluorescent lights.
/ / /
25 April 2022
(NaPoWriMo Day 25)
The bit in quotation marks is by Douglas Adams.