A Cup Of Tea And I Think Of Spring

Enjoying a cup of morning tea with fresh lemongrass and vanilla.

Oh, how it enlivens the soul!

Each sip, and  I nod approvingly between intermissions of laughter and smiles.

In my tiny room, a brief chill quickly abrupts the air, uninvited, and  I sink deeply into my cup.

Ah! Infiltrates the thought:

”This is a chalice of pleasure, I declare,” raising my cup above in a toast to The Divine, imparting my thanks of communion with Heaven.

What an idyllic moment, although I shiver.

Thoughts linger momentarily,

But I am uninclined, and so they depart.

Still, the highlight of moments awaits. I want to stop time.

The anticipation of the next sip looms impatiently with persuasive delight, as the smell of fresh lemongrass and vanilla perfumes the air.

Om. Mum-mm, my tongue, and belly pulsate with  mantras of warmth and soothing joy.

I look for something inviting to read; to touch, to listen, to invite all of the senses in this welcoming of morning ritual with heaven’s tea, an elixir for the soul, once known only to gods.

Mum-mm, delightful! I sip yet another taste of tea.

How infused with conscious bliss, though absent in thought, I remain;

My cup perhaps half full, or empty, yet I think of Spring!

                                                           

My body slips slowly into oblivion’s past, but I am awake, and conscious of now. 

In the background, music plays an enchanting sound:

Om, I listen, I hear; I want to sing!  

I want to hum what is heard, to dance what is felt.

I want to taste, to know, to be this familiar tune; a tone, unfamiliar to me would easily be forgotten.

Om, it rings a name, a thought, a whisper!

Om, I listen in rapture to an overture played with colorful intentions:

The sound of a trumpeter suddenly mitigates.

 Jazz permeates the atmosphere as in divine presence.

Om is divine, interposing as Marsalis played in key, G, C, and D.

Om, I listen to the sound, while sipping yet another taste of tea.

 Now, I am comforted and enveloped in bliss.

But, it is not “Wynton,”  but “I,” that blows.

My cup is now empty.

Spring will be a little late this year.