I look inside the cup to see
Many things awaiting me
Especially when theres also tea.
This cup was made I know not where
From native clay and native air.
Spun on a lathe. Shaped with great care.
The pigment someone also made
They toiled because it was their trade
And with great care they picked the shade.
And who put on the final glaze?
I can almost see them in the haze
With many cups stained different ways.
Packed into a crate measured by the pound
Men in trucks will take them around
To places where they will be found.
These cups will go both far and near
To many who will hold them dear
In times of sadness, times of cheer.
How many hands have held this cup?
Poured in the liquid filled it up?
Brought it with them for to sup?
When it is empty what is there?
Some will say its only air.
Others will not find it bare.
And when there is tea it brings to mind
Many others we will soon find
Who crossed our path in spiritkind.
There was the farmer who planted the seed
And insects that munched on the neighboring weed.
And clouds that dropped rain simply as a good deed.
The sun gave its blessing and ripened the crop
Men came to reap what had been sown
And the soil was a cover from which seedlings popped.
But dont forget bees from which pollen dropped.
Majestically over time it had grown
To come to us now, for our very own.
To be poured in our teacup on this very day
We shouldn't forget what occurred on the way
To bring us our tea and our cup made of clay.
But be careful how much you pour.
The cup when filled will hold no more.