Day 11, Sonnet 11

O, tea, thou art a blessing for my tongue

Which too oft speaks and moves with lack of grace.

My mouth, from which cruel words are eas’ly flung

Is tempered by thy fragrant heat’s embrace.

For thou hast taught the art of lack of pride

To withstand boiling water’s bubbling depths

When leaves have steeped and they are cast aside

‘Tis only flavoured traces that are left.

With hands cupped ‘round a mug, perform the rite:

With breath dispel the scalding smoke of steam

Let scents and flavours heartily delight

And offer guidance for the evening’s dream.

Let teas fill souls like chalices of wine;

For acts of everyday become divine.