Ode to tea

Elijah Spencer

A Japanese tea cup. White and blue with Chinese and Japanese characters covering it from top to bottom. Taller than the width of my and and smaller than a Starbucks mug. Filled with the heated and dulled water created by a mix. Not a tea bag in sight but only the herbs lifted from the water itself and gently placed to the side. An aroma of some herb. Like a herd of buffalo working towards my nerves. It's so soothing. My hands around the cup. Warming up the hands and warning the hands that this tea is hot. This tea is hot. Like a sauna made of liquid, it's comfort drips down my throat. Forcing me to hold my own soul from being so ecstatic and free. It's color tinges me. Dulls my mind by sight. Light waves at my eyes reflected by a dull peach water. A trilled white smoke drifts to the gray ceiling and the tea is still here. Warming my cold cold hands. Bringing life to the soul without life itself in my hand. It's scent perched my tongue. I can taste it in the air. Yet it's scent touched my nose and made me realize it's still there. Gently tipped and gently drowned, it's wondrous powers churn my insides. Tea has made me into dirt. With each herb taking root in me. It's swindles swindled me. It's actions pursued me while I was pursed with a gay glee. Not that it was wrong, but it felt so right to be taken by a drink as if it was pleasure. This drink is my pleasure, a warmth to the mind, and a blanket to my old and beaten heart.