Teacup Tempest Poem by Bernard F. Asuncion

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.