Mortal

Tea is beyond that word we call "soothing." I think it is almost a consolation. That is, if it is a well brewed cup of tea. It reassures the soul that life is, in fact, okay. And that in our state of being lost in ourselves and uncertain of which direction is north, we can still trust that God is holding our little piece of the world together, whether it feels like it's by threads or not.

Today in drinking tea,
I had the privilege of staring out the window before me and daydreaming.
With Bon Iver pervading my senses, things were quite peaceful and relaxing.
I noticed three birds in a barren tree. My thoughts spun a little.
And naturally, a little poetry emerged.

A leafless tree.

Stark. Shivered in the wind.

As the sun pulled the mountains over his head,

the bare tree's crimson luster faded.

His branches trembled.

His gnarled fingers unfolded.

Shudders gripped his limbs,

and each bird, which had been pressed so neatly to his breast

yielded to the air.

Winter had made a crafty entrance.

He had beguiled every sapling,

teasing them with his subtle chill.

And they had swallowed his deception.

Then, betrayal.

Winter's torment met each mortal

with a bitter frost.

Cold gusts of wind

whispered about the forlorn tree.

But each bird about him nestled closer,

They draped over his shoulders,

consoling his bones.

Winter reveled in the havoc he wreaked.

But he could feel the the spring
snapping at his heels,

harassing his senses
with verdant blossoms.