Late-summer breakfast—
 
black coffee leaks from a crack
 
in my old white cup.

 
 
 

Winter solitude—
 
tea leaks slowly from the crack
 
in my old white cup.

 
 
 

the tea in my cup
 
diluted with morning light—
 
autumn solitude

 
 
 

Just in time for tea,
 
a fly settles on the lip
 
of my steaming cup.

 
 
 

Just after sundown
 
I retire to the terrace
 
with a cup of tea.

 
 
 

Chilly spring morning—
 
I seek the solace of tea
 
in a plain white cup.

 

 
 
 

Cup of bitter tea—
 
I drink it upon waking
 
as my morning prayer.

 
 
 

Instead of coffee,
 
I sip water from a cup
 
as I watch for dawn.

 
 
 

In one cup of tea
 
I taste the whole world’s goodness—
 
winter slips away.

 
 
 

reshaping the clay
 
to make a cup for her tea—
 
potter at the wheel