The teapot whines.
It has done its job, water now
struggling to escape,
a few lucky molecules joining air-born brethren–
and now it begs for the release
of its agitated contents.
And I am thirsty.
The fire dies.
With a turn of my wrist, the burner
is granted repose,
the contented sigh of the *** speaking for the pair–
happy to be of use
but eager to relax.
And I am ready.
The teabag waits.
Its tail hanging free, it slouches
lazily against ceramic,
the bag of herbs finding home in a mug–
ready for the heat
and its life's fulfillment.
And I am pouring.
The water steeps.
As steam swirls the mug, herbs
release their subtlety,
earth and fruit and the lethargy of chamomile–
a bath of comfort,
the smell of memory.
And I am calmed.