If it’s true
That my cup is filled with not just water
That there are crushed tea leaves stirring
inside a bag once stapled at a factory
by a woman in a green shirt
Keeping a hand on the machine
and a hand on her hip for balance
Then it also rings true
that there must be more
in the space between
hiding in my cup
and calling out to be found
A farmer rising at dawn
in blue jeans and a hat for the sun
is here in this cup,
Stirring his own tea,
Setting out for the fields,
Then carrying an armful of leaves just cut,
Then loading them on a truck
Again and again.
If this is true,
Then the mother of the factory worker
is also here in this cup,
laying down at night full of hope
for her her daughter
to be strong enough for hard work
and brave enough to see beyond it
Knowing that trading ambition and survival is a skill.
If I go further again
with my my tea at hand
and my feet on the earth
I think it’s still true to say
This tea isn’t just a ticking timer
as it warms enough to become itself
and then cools enough to drink
It’s also a snow globe
A telescope pointed into the past
A party of familiar strangers
The brightness of the farm
The progress of the city
It’s a garden I can walk through
Stepping wisely the more I go
Looking carefully the more I find
If seeing this for myself makes it true,
and if I get comfort and peace from truth,
then I know how to drink my tea
I hold the cup,
The fields,
The city,
And the people around me
With a lighter touch
and a stronger hand
