First day of the month—
 
the tea in my cup grows cold
 
along with my prayers.

 
 
 

My father once drank
 
from the cup that I now drink—
 
deepening autumn.

 
 

Smoky autumn tea—
 
I marvel at the blessings
 
nestling in my cup.

 
 
 

First autumn cold snap—
 
my hands cradle a white cup
 
filled with steaming tea.

 
 

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.