There was a time when man with his bare soul mediated with nature, creature and man. He could chop trees to bridge unions, from the bush, across big streams and unto the streets. Watching seasons come and go, bearing whatever gift and levy that comes with them.
Horses had carts, cats were wild and pets, while oceans continued.
A time came, hot water took to court to pour its pain, of being left in the pot to be violated by meat, grains, even unassuming veggies and sometimes aimless fire. That it was not wooed or preserved like its cool brother, the toast of guests and workers.
Scorched by heat shall it be scorned by men? Was it not worthy to be nursed alone in cups like wine and yet lure tourists to itself? In this frustration like an uncharted route, it had enjoyed neglect, it had suffered peace.
We were still there with our almost bare soul and tea tree too like others in the marketplace until autumn threw its sabbatical leaf into the meeting, whether on its way to wither or become.
If a tree cannot make a forest, this one can make a tea party. Spanning seas
Solomon had no baby to cut in two
And even if he had, no mother was in tears
When the virgin leaf saw the sweating lonely prince
Compassion steamed in them, they hugged each other in the witness stand
One as if to suck the other’s tears
The other as if to wipe the shame of neglect
Then the miracle followed
Light and life came in new form
A planet for the cup
Humanity had found a way, a wonder
and we leave happily ever after with our cups of tea
