Second Steep

The kettle clicks off and the kitchen is cold.

I’m reaching for the box, but it’s mostly just air.

I fish out the bag from the saucer’s old fold,

damp and stained like a thing beyond repair.

I drop it in the mug and the water stays clear,

just a pale, brownish ghost swirling slow at the base.

I squeeze it with a spoon to bring something near,

some heat or some flavor to fill up this space.

It’s a thin kind of comfort, a stretch of the hand,

making do with the dregs and the things that remain.

I’m trying to keep what I still understand

while the world turns its back on the frost on the pane.