tarnish and polish

i see you there,
a simple silver teapot.
metal forged and shaped,
refined by fire, with hands kind,
singed and soldered edges,
molded with purpose in mind.
one of a kind piece,
carrying an intentional form.
in ways, only you uniquely can,
a vessel fit to warm.
this dance of filling and pouring,
is actually part of my forming.
three cups a set,
maybe even four.

i see you holding
a tea not yours to generate.
an atmospheric warmer,
simple hospitable fixture.
you’re chosen for divine appointments,
an opener, conversation mixer.
tea to hold, then share,
percolates slow and still,
yet, i know you need me too,
need me once again to fill.
three cups we prep,
maybe even four.

i see you waiting,
see the longing to pour.
but what you offer
must stir in you first.
before it was anyone else’s,
it was the object of your thirst.
wait for the whistle,
warmed by what you carry.
in time comes lovey fragrance
rising like incense, airy.
so even this slow steeping,
proves nothing’s wasted in between.
three minutes we wait,
maybe even four.

i see you pouring,
delighted by this offering.
open to my hands a lift,
and with timely flavor and feel,
sharing what warms,
inviting to new depths revealed.
a slow paced moment,
present only to this rhythm.
then feeling nothing more,
or tea grows cold again.
i think we’ve poured enough today,
it’s time we wash, polish, and display.
three times we pour,
maybe even four.

i see you caring,
taking in your surroundings.
see the longing to serve,
make a difference, love,
change the world.
and you do, seen from above.
offering what you can,
until you can’t anymore.
then found empty,
unsure you even changed the score.
we rinse, dry, wait.
tomorrow we repeat.
three sips to soothe,
maybe even four.

i see you empty,
unsure if enough, less of plenty.
sitting helpless and finished.
these daily carries,
inevitably, will surely tarnish,
over time, if yours, will only weary.
a new cup will come tomorrow,
until then, these hands to polish.
for even when empty,
nothing is missed, not a blemish.
behold a piece simply to shine,
chosen for this particular time.
three strokes to polish,
maybe even four.

i see you as cherished,
now can’t you see?
my hands they host,
my hands they pour.
i’m delighted at what we do,
but your beauty and form, even more,
and your wholeness i pursue.
life will tarnish, i will polish,
all will play a part.
my very own teapot,
simply a piece of art.
it’s true you are a gift,
but first you are a treasure.
so this quiet rhythm,
is fully my dear pleasure.
and a tomorrow there will be,
then maybe infinitely more,
three times, will you let me?
maybe even four.