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.
Thanksgiving: a sonnet
17 hours ago