ode to thirty (and teapots)

If years were teapots
and I’d lived thirty
here’s what some would be:

a heavy clay one, purple with golden stars,
I close my eyes and can see it held in my mother’s hands -
a greeny-blue one with a map of the world, and Australia cut off at the handle -
another with swirls and dots, a gift for my tea loving mama,
and years later I would visit the very place in Poland it had been made - 
the Japanese pot painted with dragonflies,
the first that belonged only to me -
a tiny yellow 1950s one with wattle on the lid, enough for two little cups -
there’s the ornate pewter pot, pouring mint tea from height
in all the places we visited in Morocco - 
a beautiful blue and white pot, covered in willow trees
and swallows and mountain side,
carried in my hand luggage to France - 
a brown and green glazed pot Alex found in a paddock covered in earth -
the unbreakable (as yet) enamel pot, pale blue,
which holds tea for guests and sometimes daisies from the garden - 
the stainless steel faithful pot, an enduring wedding present;
who has boiled our water on the stove for nearly ten years -
and the pots I drew in blue ink, one shaped of hair,
another with a garden growing out of it - 

There’s more of course,
so many pots over the years
that filled the cups;
whispers, whimsies,
tears and teabags too - 

The cups of joy, of relief 
post-childbirth sips,
cups of sorrow, farewells, 
new beginnings, regrets -  
the cups of faith
(the runneth over types)
of early mornings,
mid-afternoons,
evenings when everyone is in their beds
(some of the very best)
so many shared with friends,
strangers, kin,
with my husband -
tiny cups of rooibos with my children,
ceylon, oolong, 
lapsang souchong,
bergamot anything,
roasted rice, dandelion roots,
Buddha’s tears,
fresh verbena leaves - 

Ah! If years were teapots 
and I’d lived thirty 
I’d drink to it’s story:
the lessons and the loving,
the pouring out and the filling,
the adventures and the brewing -
Here’s to another thirty...