Black is a Most Beautiful Color

Abstract

A Cup of TeaAll day in Kyoto a snarky wind plays hop-scotch with the Fall's brittle speckles of burnt-orange leaves that crunch and announce where I walk.The abbot greets me at the door.We sit in lotus, cushioned on the floor.A pot percolates between us.He pours boiling water over stone-ground matcha, whisks it a bright green sheen.It smells like lemongrass split open by Spring rain."How much to pour?," he asks."My cup holds nothing."He pours, asks "As snow falls do the shivering birds shout for it to stop?" "The birds," I say, "Sit inside themselves until they fall frozen dead from the bough, riding the whispers on the whips of the wind that wraps the Northern lights, pulls them loosely over the mountains of its shoulders."He hands me the empty cup of my hand.We sit and recline into the emptiness of ourselves.And we drink.

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