That your sounds should be so sharp
And yet so tenderly accepted
More a falcon's cry than harp
With taught pulled strings directed
By the hands with years behind them
From which are lovely melodies tempted
And yet upon you is the sense
Of a sluggish urgency
A moment's labor recompense
For moments quick to flee
What hopes to pin upon you now
With a simple cup of tea
Whistle yes but in name only
The shrieks you yet let fly
Twin cups are better than lonely
With a third standing idly by
In some funny ritual performed
On halfway laughing sigh
A cure for anything that ails
The wives' tale universal cure
When told of one's impending pales
The only constant question sure
To action at once faithfully
Then you would at once spur
Yes, your cry cuts straight to core
But I wouldn't wish it gone
It's the mark of being cared for
Of being nearly doted on
Like the breaking of the light
So sharply in the too-soon dawn
A moment's labor recompense
For moments quick to flee
What hopes to pin upon you now
With a simple cup of tea
This is actually a preview of the poetry collection I'm working on, to be released by the end of the year!
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