I wondered about those old teacups,
the bold ones and the dainty
that adorned the antique table
by your reading chair.
I imagine you hear the whispers
of all the conversations those
teacups have absorbed over time,
saved in their porcelain memories.
Do you set the cups at a table,
listen to ancestors speak of
the pains and passions of their day,
while sipping from your own vessel?
I have a teacup of my own now,
fresh from the kiln.
I drink tea alone, narrating
the great stories of you.
So that two-hundred years
from now, another
teacup collector
will know your legend.