by Peter Gallaher
God stopped by today.
“I saw you sitting,” He said
By way of introduction,
“And considered that an invitation.”
“You don't need much,” I answered Him.
“Do You think You might presume
On a person's hospitality
Especially since You are God the Almighty?”
“I had some thought for that
And hesitated just a bit
Fixing a few errant stars in Virgo
Coming up your driveway, now,”
He replied standing as if waiting
For an invitation to sit down.
It was frankly a bit grating
And I told Him so, “You're around,”
I said, “all the time everywhere
And an invitation to the Ground
Of All Being to join one anywhere
Strikes me as a bit redundant.
Why would You need a welcome, come in,
When the evidence is abundant
You already, You always, have been…in
As it were, and there or here as well.
As a matter of fact, You're then and when
And every time and place but hell.”
I took a deep breath, offered God a seat
Hoping He got it all, that I needn't repeat
Any of what I had just said
And marveled that I wasn't dead.
God sat down. “Will you have,” I began.
“A cup of tea,” He finished, smiling.
“A cup of tea, I was about to say,” pouring.
“I would like nothing better than
Some strong hot tea this afternoon,
A scone or two and good company.
I've always considered tea a boon
And thank Myself,” He continued, looking pleased,
“Each time I drink a cup with having had
A bit to do with its creation.
It's that good say I who never made
Anything bad. Tea and conversation
I say further were made for each other
Separate they may just bore or bother.”
I poured and passed the cup of strong Irish
Brew to God who smiled and looked into it.
“I hope you like it. I would be lying
To say another was my favorite.”
“You may pick and choose among them all one
Upon which your favor rests. I have none.
That is to say I love them all the same.
I love them all from seed to seed again.”
It was my turn now to smile and I did.
Raising my cup to Him I took a sip
And tasted everything there was to taste
About a cup of tea in swallow's space.
I knew the water's molecules, the drops
Of rain upon the tropic hills, the tops
Of mountains in the distance where the soils
Came for the plants, the sweat from those who toiled
Among them. I knew the strong warehouse men
Who moved great bales of black leaves about in
Dark cool spaces, the ships, the breathing sea
Beneath them, the winds upon the foam tipped waves
That spanned the miles between the leaf and me.
And I could not tell which of all was tea.
“I know the difference,” He said, putting
Down His cup. “It's enough,” He smiled again,
“For you right now to know they are the same
To Me, My Love. Now I must be going.
I have enjoyed our little chat…”
How strange, I thought, for Him to call it that.
“And the tea of course was just heavenly.
May I ask you soon to set another cup for Me?”
