Loose Leaves.

A poem.

pour the kettle.

another pot of tea.

it brews slowly,

turning the water murky

little by little

until it is transformed.

 

i watch the spirals form

billowing out from the loose leaves

trapped in the strainer

looking neither solid

nor liquid.

they simply are as they are.

 

the smell of the tea rises.

it is a familiar scent.

it comforts me,

it knows me.

and in my darkest hours

it greets me fondly.

 

when night falls

and the neighborhood dogs grow silent,

there is a moment

where everything seems content…

except me.

i sigh.

 

the dust falls around me

as i settle on the couch.

another sleepless night

with company in the form

of my own shadow

and loose leaves.