The Hour of Tea
In the hour of tea
the eyes dwell
in loving particular
every hand becomes a cup
of grace
every bright speck
in the floating room
a grail.
In the hour of tea
we bow to our hot bowls
of green tea
and our brows are blessed
by its steam
like strange creatures of the deep sea
hovering over the plume
of the hot spring
in a mid ocean rift.
In the hour of tea
we sip,
and every cell of our bodies
transforms blood
into wine,
the celestial wine of T’ang poets.
In the hour of tea
we sip,
and our flesh becomes bread,
the waybread of Sufi saints.
We must pray
to be broken,
like the promise of the beloved,
into the laughter
of the cosmos.
