On a low wooden table,
a teapot rests in stillness.
Porcelain cool, handle poised,
it waits beneath the hush of morning light.
Steam has not yet risen,
no cup yet placed beside it.
Only the faint scent of leaves nearby,
and the quiet hum of time.
It does not yearn,
for it knows its purpose will come—
water warmed, leaves unfurled,
the sharing of warmth between hands.
In its waiting there is peace,
for waiting is part of serving,
and serving part of being.
When the kettle finally sings,
and the first pour begins,
the teapot does not rejoice—
it simply fulfills what it has always been meant to do.
No comments:
Post a Comment