We sat there,
The only sounds,
The hiss of the kettle,
The crack and moan,
Of an old wooden house,
The push and pull of our breath.
He smiled,
A gap in the clouds,
On a January afternoon.
I made the tea shop my temple, he said,
The merchant became my seer,
The tea sages my saints.
I made the tea table my altar,
The tea bowl my chalice,
The kettle my font.
See!
The leaves have written my catechism,
Defined my sacrament.
I found heaven at the bottom of a teacup.
I finished my cup,
Then waited, patiently,
For more.
Northern Teaist 
Reblogged this on ¡Word(I)nfusion! and commented:
Beautiful words!
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Thanks for the compliment as well as the re-blog… 🙂
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Thank you for the words, I can definitely relate!
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