We sit together for tea
with cups, saucers, and
the old willow teapot.
The afternoon sun moves
closer to the end
as the chatter moves on.
Wishing wells and time
come to mind for
many unknown reasons.
The teapot empties
staying that way for a while;
we continue appearances.
A sound from the teapot;
no, this must be a mistake.
The teapot becomes a shell,
and the music of the sea plays.
No one else seems to notice
the teapot, playing songs.
She’s calling me to her side;
I decide to visit the sea
and ask her for her hand.
C & K 