The kettle screams, fulfilling its one and only job, begging for release. Or maybe it just whistles. Matured, fulfilled, enough. Every morning I wait a moment too long, and lunge toward my stove in urgent disarray...don't let her boil too long. I must be talking to myself. Create before you rupture. before you boil so steamy, sappy, bold that even your own skin cannot touch you.
I abide a little more each day. each caffeinated ritual brings me closer to...something. Between my heat and my heart, I create, almost without my doing. It's only the settling that burns. I am a mother, and a someone I have yet to name and understand. a pot about to boil, steamy, smitten truths, of findings (forever ago) they just waited until now to claim such a bold, bad, name. Bad as in good, you know. It has never felt quite like this before.