The tea is piping hot and
smells of spice, the
soft aroma of forests
distant and fields,
bristling in the morning wind.
A sip would fasten to
your tongue and settle there,
in tiny cottages,
roofs glistening with snow,
and window panes dazed and
foggy, faces peering out
at morning dew.
Each cradling small, sizzling
teacups, steaming up their
blissful, sleepy souls.