Jasmine (one-sixty-two)
I’ll draw you a place
where the pleasure is tea;
where the friendships are warm
and the smiles are free.

Have a small warm pot
of one-sixty-two;
a light cool breeze and a
window with a view;
sit by a young lass,
and perchance you’ll pursue;
the gods have smiled
on your afternoon.

As Spring melts to snow, our
friends’ll close the door;
cinnamon strolls the air,
fuzzy slippers the floor;
reach across and pass
the two-ninety-four; with
a promise for now and
the same for’er more.

Another young lass—or
the same again to meet;
seats by the fire and
warm socks for your feet;
a nice big blanket and
a larger pot of tea;
reach compromise and
try one-twenty-three.

There may yet come a time
when the tea does turn cold;
the place is forgot,
the lass is unknown;
when the smiles are bought,
and the friendships grow old;

but I hope for now—
I think you’ll agree
there’s not another place
that you’d rather be
than right here with me,
and this fresh pot of tea.

When the dumb decisions make themselves,
and the people you're around feel without,
there must be a place, thing and time,
where this voice can feel free,
to think, shape, and rhyme.