I'm building a tea house on the porch in the city of dust, with garden store bamboo, and a curbside cast-off underfoot. The only purity in the beating of my heart. The too bright painting of flowers knows it belongs, for there is nowhere for it to go but here. Its strange harmony a reminder of mornings with bagels, and walks in the park with an angel. Milk crate seats replace tatami mats with respect for knees, backs, and your beautiful lazy feet, freed of their shoes and their stories of who you are. Stones hug the walls, each one a friend, all present now in this empty space of tranquility. Give your heavy thoughts to them resting in total stillness, just there. They will hold them for you...just for now. I'm building a tea house in the city of dust, with tradition and things abiding. Wisdom flowing from past masters into the warm hearth of my intention. The holy black kama, the life green matcha. The sound of hot water, patience and now. Every memory a guest, every guest an honor, every enlightened sip a miracle.