The cup that holds the tea
doesn't question the leaves' right to steep
doesn't judge them
for needing heat and time
to release their full flavor.
The cup doesn't think the tea weak
for the tears of condensation that
run down its sides
collect in a puddle at its base
leave a ring on the table beneath.
The cup doesn't ask the tea why it can't be
more like coffee
or hot cocoa
or soup.
The cup just holds
— just holds.
Blessed be the cup.
Blessed be the tea.
Blessed be that both might be me.
(inspired by the poem "The Patience of Ordinary Things," by Pat Schneider)
