Sky Drop

A china cup of stars and sliver moon,
And cherry blossom bowl on golden spoon
Atop a saucer, spreading skies of green:
It’s landed here this Christmas in a box—
Your gold-edged gift, a treasure for a queen!

But oh! I don’t have space to store this set
In all the crowded cupboards of my flat.
The saucer’s skybowl-wide. And yet the cup
Is demi-sized. I fret like Goldilocks:
“Too big,” “too small”—the truth is, I'm filled up.

And yes, this peacock green’s a noble tone,
But not a one I’ve ever felt 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 nighttime 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, which awaits
The lumps that every wellness zealot hates
And contemplate that when I start to brew,
One half of every tea bag must be lost,
Since each can make not one such cup, but two.
Oh, boy! I think you’d better keep this thing,
Not me. I’m less a queen than you a king.
So steep in it some dainty luxuries
For both of us; my own domain is crossed
By stars. Then fly me to the moon . . . you tease!

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