The Tearoom

When sadness comes to darken

the little corners of my mind,

There’s a place I like to go

and leave the world behind.

I need no ticket or suitcase

to embark upon my trip;

I have watercolors of imagination

In which to go for a dip.

I call to mind a lovely tearoom—

all gold, white, and baby blue—

I set out tea, cream, and tiny treats;

now, just one thing left to do.

I don a favorite summer gown—

I want to look my best.

I sit at my place and begin the wait

For my esteemed and honored guests.

Shakespeare arrives first

with oh so much to say.

His lips brush my hand and then

he compares me to a summer’s day.

And here comes John Donne

with a warm smile just for me.

We have his work to discuss

on the brilliant Satire III.

In pops Hermione Granger,

Ever a witty and punctual girl.

I cannot wait to hear some news

of happenings in the wizarding world.

In dances little Alice, who

tells of mischief she’s met.

“Curious and curiouser!” she says,

as she takes in my pretty tea set.

As Lord Tennyson saunters in

I’m pouring tea, piping hot.

He has quite the Beauty on his arm—

the famed Lady of Shalott.

“You’re nearly late, Edgar!” I say,

as he stumbles through the door.

His sad eyes say he’s far away

as he assures me, “Nevermore.”

The conversating is fascinating,

sophisticated, stirring, yet light.

We fervently discuss, debate, and laugh--

a true afternoon delight.

We enjoy the company until dusk

and my eyes reveal my sorrow;

all rise to leave, it’s getting late,

And Donne says, “Same time tomorrow?”

Books are the best things in life,

though they be small and humble.

Adventures await any wanderer,

as into distant lands you’ll stumble.

Perhaps you prefer the cathartic sting

of a deep love poem or great Tragedy.

If so, you’re in the great company of

Shakespeare, Sophocles, and Her Majesty.

Books are teachers and friends, with

knowledge and secrets in their pages.

Each chapter a new discovery

that can endure throughout the ages.

I come out of my reverie,

no longer feeling the sadness sting.

Book in hand, I think to myself,

“I suppose it’s the little things.”