The tea she makes in the morning
brews it, to her according
Even as it is unmade
Habitual, she can feel the taste
There’s a little too much boiling
To the likes of her, she keeps coiling
For others, it’s almost spoiling
But it doesn’t matter about them
Tea, her craft, its leaves she carefully stems
.
It looks brewed now, she knows for sure
As she does it everyday, good to lure
One cup to herself and another for him
Its peculiar taste that no one can dim
For some togetherness, sweet words from her kin
She brews the tea, the same, to the exact of a pin
She brews the tea for these moments of solitude, that are nothing
But a whim!
.
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