A china cup of stars and sliver moon;
a long-stemmed flower posing as a spoon
atop a saucer spreading skies of green:
it’s landed here this birthday in a box –
your gold-edged gift, a treasure for a queen!
But oh – I don’t have space to store this lot
in all the crowded cupboards of my flat.
The saucer, skybowl-wide, supports a cup
that’s demi-sized. I fret like Goldilocks:
“Too big,” “too small” – in truth, I’m just filled up.
And while this peacock green’s a noble tone,
it's one (like gold) I’ve never wished to own.
I move the set about from desk to shelf
and eye it at the starts and ends of days,
but can’t quite harmonize it with myself.
“Now, aren’t these stars a bit too sparse?” I fuss
aloud, but know you’ve chosen them for us,
with all our lofty talk of night-time skies.
“Such highborn things,” I muse, “have measured ways.”
In all ten stars I see your twinkling eyes.
At this, I grasp the bloom-spoon. It awaits
the lumps that every wellness zealot hates.
One teabag makes two times what this cup holds,
so what becomes of each bag’s other half?
It goes to waste! my cheapskate conscience scolds.
Oh dear. I’ll tote this treasure back to you
across the country, hoping you might brew,
in both our names, some liquid luxuries.
Till then, I’ll grab my big mug, swig, and laugh –
you almost flew me to the moon . . . you tease!