The Oracle of the Everyday
She holds the cup, the steam ascends—
The world reshapes, the moment bends.
No need for temple, book, or rite—
The mystery rests in morning light.
To read the leaves is not to know,
But touch the flow of what must grow.
And still the vision comes again—
The same old truths in newer skin.
The pattern shifts, the dance resumes,
Yet something still within consumes.
The veil is thin where questions burn—
We do not know, we only turn.
