Morning Tea

Five thousand years of drinkable wisdom,
as rusty-clear and timely as the rooster's crow,
catch the shower of tiny white diamonds,
swallow their sparkle,
swell away their points and edges.
Two stirs, no more – a day in its starting blocks
deserves a long breath of unforced physics.
The porcelain, a scant degree shy of hot, takes my hand,
woos a marriage from fingers still miffed
at being torn from blankets and pillows.
My thumb curves upward, at sunrise crawl,
its back tracing the smooth, inner slope of the handle.
Instinct coaxes my chin and eyelids lower
with devilish promises that submission and darkness
are the perfect escorts to exponential pleasure.
The first sip issues a zesty tenor, almost sharp,
a tinge of wild pecan and green persimmon,
enough to jolt my eyes back open.
The ones that follow wander the orchestra,
finally settling on tones of comfort
from the morning's mandolin.
I give the cup half a swirl
just to watch the last few granules spring free,
a moment of play for a wrinkling child of fifty.