In the palm of his left-hand rests
a black stone mortar, his right-hand holds
the stone pestle. Then with all his strength
a ninety-five-year-old inhabitant of the Thudong
Forest, works tirelessly to grind
each and every old leaf harvested
from the Camellia sinensis plant.
I wonder, does the process release
something that the world cannot see?
Creating a steady stream of energy
through each steeped cup, or is it expected
from the ancestors?
No matter, the spirit of the tea
comes from the words spoken
over it from a masters hand
in a place inside a hermit’s hut,
untouched until now.
~ taro