As the teaspoon stirred,
one wondered, pondered
of totems, origins and species;
tetragona or hermaphroditus or
nganda of the south;
with shallow roots and shrubs.
Ripened cherries and beans;
so little were the pests in there.
But today, as old fate’s song;
All the while, granule clans dissolve
in the mug, her distinctive blend unfolds.
Intertwined at ease, so swirled and
swirled from molten mould.
I dreamed a silent scent of old—
On curved hold, carved hands softening
in steamy souls of stir.
Soon sighing the brew, rising slow as mist,
with warm whiffs wooing my lungs with
the timeless taste at ease.
My body, fully revived by the rich aroma.
My mind, awakened as I took a sip of passionate pleasure.