the prophecy of tea leaves

what's in the cards? 

is the maker our mother/father/sista'/brutha' from anotha' mutha'? 

as we trounce through the muddy, wet drops 

after a rainfall's deluge, 

are we abject? 

grimy? 

do the sordid splashes speckle us with muck 

or instead, 

might we be purified? 

cleansed? 

purged of the sins of the day-to-day? 

assuaged of the sometimes-never-constant-idiosyncratic-wonder of it all?

grey clouds yield the wet of summer rain, 

sporadically. 

in the skip of heartbeat, 

fragments of a momentous retrieval of regret 

are subdued 

by the quell of a balloon-billow 

in- 

or 

ex-

halation. 

does fear subdue the wish of the shy? 

extinguish the hope of the dreamer?

 in the quash of squelching that secret, simple, sometimes-surety, 

are we 

better 

or worse. 

do you say it say it say it as tracy recommends, 

or 

instead, 

let the cool crush of servitude wash over the pebble-grey-stillness of the unknowing mind...

do we 

can we 

will we 

ever know? 

is it for us to know, fathom, concoct, retrieve?

in the skimmed-hot-brim, of a tea-cup's leaves?

or, thrown to the wind, 

is the will of the sun-stars-God-(ess), 

simply, 

whatever will be.