Ode to a Tea Bag

The tea bag blomps about my steaming cup,
It puffs with air, balloonly bouncy light,
Flits brief below, then quickly floats back up;
I leave it in until my tea's just right.
Sometimes I add a bit of something sweet,
Sometimes I add a bit of something sour.
Sometimes I drink it simple, plain and neat,
And sip another cup with each new hour.
I wish I'd something quite profound to say,
Some bit of wit more deep than steeping tea.
But maybe thoughts of tea will show the way,
For it's in seeing that we learn to see,
And thoughts are puffy things, and airy light,
Dip down below before they come up right.

Mara

She came to stave off just a few short days
Fulfillment of decay that had begun
Some several thousand years ago, and lays
Deep buried at the core of everyone.
She came with bitter spices rare and sweet,
To offer one last service to her Lord,
To give His death the honor due and meet.
She came, her heart sore pierced as with a sword.
A flaming sword, when angels cleared the way,
And death itself lay slain before her feet,
On this the dawning third and sacred day,
Bewildered until He Himself would greet
Her by her name of bitterness and pain,
Now raised to joy with Christ her Lord once slain.