A poem about the sacred emptiness that lets love, grace, and presence enter.
Tea at the Edge of Forever
We poured the silence first; the tea came later.
Steam rose like a soft staircase, and we climbed it without moving.
The table became a small earth. Our cups, four moons.
Someone laughed,
and the laugh made more room in the room.
Listen: the cup is praised for what it holds,
but it is useful only for its empty space.
Empty is not absence; it is invitation.
Leave space, and the world will sit down.
The cup’s virtue is its void.
What it can hold wins applause.
What it leaves open keeps it alive.
Do not clutch. Unburden your heart.
A fist cannot hold; a fist cannot drink.
Let the tea borrow your soul for a while,
then return it to you—purer, lighter, true.
If your heart is a loaf, break it.
Love multiplies by giving;
Joy multiplies by sharing.
What of suffering?
Do not decorate it. Do not chase it with banners.
When pain arrives, treat it as an austere teacher:
bow once, learn the lesson, and let it go.
Fire is a passage, not a home.
Call it luck or grace or right-timed rain—
we call it doorways meeting walkers.
Plant many doors: kindness offered without ledger,
work placed where it can be found by need,
words set free into honest air.
When the wind at last finds you,
let your sail be up.
Choose the small faithful act over the grand theory.
A lamp does not argue with the night; it simply shines.
Do not say “I am light.” Be light.
Do not say “I forgive.” Put down the stone.
Do not say “I seek truth.” Remove what is not.
Sacrifice is not self-erasure;
it is the art of making room for what matters.
If you must pray, let your prayer be honest work.
Sweep the floor as if making space for a guest you love.
Speak as if language were a river crossing—
few stones, well-placed; everyone dry.
Let your mind be a garden with a gate unlatched.
Let your breath ring like a bell in a quiet chapel you carry in your ribs.
Let your body learn seasons: sow, rest, harvest, rest.
Wherever you stand, soften the ground.
Arrive, listen, return what you borrow;
Keep one promise you wish someone had kept for you.
We wrote these lines on steam and they vanished—
good words should.
What remains is the warm cup in your hands,
the gentle weight of being here,
and the next small act that proves it.
Now drink.
Ask the tea one question:
What can I release so that what I am may pour?
