Teacup Tempest

A porcelain world, a gentle painted scene, Where floral sprigs on ivory convene. Then, sudden swirl, a tempest takes its hold, A miniature rage, a story to unfold. The spoon, a mast against the brewing gale, Where sugar crystals, like hailstones, fiercely sail. The tea, a sea in turbulent dark sway, Where tiny waves in frothy anger play. A whispered sigh, a tremble in the hand, As fragile peace surrenders to command. The edges blur, the calm begins to break, A silent fury for goodness' sake. No thunder booms, no lightning cracks the sky, Yet in that cup a hidden passions lie. A storm contained in delicate design, A teacup tempest, a turbulent shrine. And when it stills, the dregs of chaos seen, A lesson learned where small things intervene. For even here where gentle spirits meet, A storm can rage in moments bittersweet. ©bfa033125