The tea leaves dance
In the boiling water,
Lending to it,
Their rich colour,
Even as the aroma wafts
Into the room yonder.

The tea cup on the counter top
Is a faded blue with indelible stains,
And a chipped edge to boot.

And yet it serves its purpose well
As her dainty fingers clasp its handle
And she purses her lips
For the first sip,
Which is lost in a grimace
As the scalding liquid
Makes its way past her burned tongue.

The tea cup has sat on the coaster
On the unremarkable table
In the tiny room,
For as long as it has taken
For the sun to give way to the moon,
Its contents a watery, brown liquid,
Rendered unpalatable
By the mere passage of time.

She sits by the window
Watching through unseeing eyes,
The world gives pause to its busyness,
Even as she puts on the mantle of hers.