Black Tea

I long to sing your praise,
Mostly in the quiet morning hours...
Probably a habit left behind by the great man,
Sipping black tea,
Eyes closed, humming to himself,
A groggy good morning would fetch a nod,
Sometimes a wink,
The world with its worries and disappointments,
Didn’t weigh too heavily then,
The attempts to chat him up,
Almost always failed,
A finger to his lips and the forehead creased in devotion,
In surrender the day began,
I was a poor companion,
But, I now believe,
The company of God is all he sought,
The prayer of the heart,
Drowned in the soul stirring music,
He played every morning...