THE TEACUP TREE
 
I know a pretty little street,
not busy, broad, or long,
set in a pleasant part of town

and lined with flowering cherry plums,
a row on either side,
to the delight of tourists who
in springtime take a ride

in open carriages to smell
the honey-scented breeze
that frolics in the pale-pink bloom,
attracting early bees
 
and tiny birds with sparkling wings
whose sweet distinctive hum
is heard the most, that's what I think,
in one amazing plum

that fronts a wooden bungalow
painted in sage-green hues,
the windchime on its porch does play
a lovely, soothing blues.
 
It is a quite peculiar
and norm-defying tree,
between its branches dangle cups,
the ones you use for tea.

Their white and dainty porcelain
does wink and twinkle through
the glossy purple foliage,
and there are tea pots too.
 
So often I, while strolling past,
have marveled at the sight,
especially at those times when
the mornings rising light,

illuminates floral designs
and various coloured trims,
surprised to find an echo in
some gleaming gilded rims,

or when a gale is feeling bold,
on days with rushing clouds,
and fingers through the leafy top,
nudging handles and spouts.
 
In a good-humoured, playful mood,
it does tickle and tease,
but still is always careful to
not break a single piece.

If squirrels do have tea parties
on balmy afternoons,
they may wish for a sugar dish
and a few silver spoons.

They know, though, where the creamer hangs,
and all of them have seen
the one collector's cup that shows
the picture of a queen.

Warm Augusts will grow small red fruit
among the China crop;
I'm sure it's sheer astonishment
that causes them to drop

long, long before the fall arrives
to pluck the branches bare
and call out in its booming voice:
"Look what I've found in there!"

I wonder if at dewy dawns
or when it rains a lot
the cups remember being filled
with liquid that was hot,

releasing fragrant wisps of steam
while odd sensations spread
all through their hard ceramic paste.
And have those ever led

the cups to reminisce about
their origin and past,
the kilns in which they have been born,
burnt twice and made to last;

the bustling stores with lit displays
of shiny glass and chrome,
in which they sat expectantly
until they found a home?

Do they recall those many times
when human hands did touch
their glazing in a tender way? 
Did they enjoy it much

to have a part in gatherings
of families and friends,
to be the chosen ones who were
so honoured to dispense

refreshment, comfort, remedies,
and receive in return
vibes of delight and gratitude?
When snow falls, do they yearn

for a nice room with candlelight
or blazing chandelier
where happy laughter blends into
the mood of festive cheer?

And yet somehow I am convinced,
all that's not what they wish
because they like the here and now
and truly do relish:

life in the pretty little street,
glances from passers-by,
the robins' evening serenade,
the peace of the night sky.

Of course, you will be curious
how all this came about.
I'm happy to inform you that,
indeed, I have found out

the tale, which is a touching one.
Having read the above,
you possibly might guess by now
that it was done for love.

A couple who have made their home
in the said bungalow
started it on a summers eve
around twelve years ago.
 
Maybe they had a spot of tea
before they went ahead,
inspiring their creative whims?
Let us see where it led:

Nairn, the wife, had the idea,
her husband, Rory, did
purchase the cups in thrift stores and
then string them up amid

the cherry plum's obliging twigs.
Yet neither did reveal
the secret 'why' to anyone -
they kept it under seal.

Still, unaware what it all meant,
the neighbourhood was pleased:
"So charming!", "How adorable!"
And people haven't ceased

to add their own small offerings
to the tree's fancy load;
the resident sparrows and crows
rejoice in their abode.

"That's great," you say, "but still I am
not wiser than before
as to the thoughts and motives that
are at its very core."

I'm sorry that I made you wait;
the truth can now be told.
The couple have since spoken out;
here is what did unfold:

Each had a special grandmother
with independent mind,
two women known for blazing trails,
compassionate and kind,
 
standing on their own two feet;
whenever life got hard
resilient through tragedies,
proactive, daring, smart.

One was a teacher with great skills,
well-loved, and late in life
helped boys who had trouble in school
to overcome and thrive.
 
The other felt deeply compelled
to support those who lacked,
convinced each human does deserve
dignity and respect.

Both women were keen travelers,
one even offered tours
that shipped folks during summer breaks
to distant Asian shores,
 
where she indulged her passion for
the pleasures and - just think -
rich culture and traditions of
the world's most ancient drink.

The other celebrated tea
with her own family
and baking rituals at home
every day at three.
 
No wonder, Nairn and Rory, each
cherish their memory
of sitting down with grandmama
over a cup of tea.

Do we not all hope to live on
in the hearts of our kin
and to create such glowing and
lasting feelings within?
 
So, if you're ever in these parts
and have some time to spare,
pop over to the teacup tree,
and I will meet you there.

We'll bring our tumblers filled with hot,
and strong, and sweet, let's say,
Assam, or spiced black cherry, Chai,
Darjeeling or Earl Grey,
 
and then we pause before we take
the first delicious sips,
and gaze into the teacup tree
with smiles upon our lips,

and raise a toast to grandmothers
by whom we have been kissed,
and do include all young and old
tea lovers dearly missed.
 
Copyright: Silke Stein, November 2021