Nothing to do with Tea

Listen to the night

as she listens to you.

The night never shouts, never yells,

never raises her voice.

She coos when you are sad

but mostly remains silent,

embracing you warmly

with her cool, unoppressive air.

Do not fear the quietude or darkness;

revel in them, become close friends.

See how much beauty shadows hold,

those silhouettes of tall pines and proud wolves,

pirouetting across the otherwise still landscape.

Why try to drive them away

into the farthest corners,

as if at war, fighting darkness with light?

All that light, it will blind you.

Instead in the clearness of the night,

dream with your eyes wide open,

allow your soul to roam freely

and feel your mind grow wings.

The night is patient.

She moves at an unhurried pace,

never shooing the stars off stage

or rushing the dawn to come.

The threads of first light will shine through

when they should,

as it was meant to be.

The first buds of spring

need not be reminded to burst forth

nor do the leaves of maples need to be prompted

to change color and descend when autumn approaches.

Is she not magnanimous—

letting the stars steal the show

and granting the moon passage sans toll,

content to serve as the background,

a role for which she remains quiet and still.

The night listens patiently to your cries,

returning the echoes as laughs.