A pot whispers, holding its breath,
steam curls like thoughts unspoken,
I sift through pages, old ink,
each word a sigh, a pause,
motor hums slide past the window,
their echoes ripple through silence.
The kettle's murmur grows insistent,
as if urging me to remember,
the past clings to my fingers,
like dust on forgotten shelves,
I trace lines of what was,
each stroke a tender ache.
Boiling water meets its climax,
a crescendo of warmth and clarity,
I lift my gaze, weary yet hopeful,
as light spills through the steam,
the hum of engines fades away,
and I find solace in the glow.