Five-fifteen is such an ungodly hour. All is dark. All is stiff and creaky. The wood floors beneath the carpet, out the bedroom, a short run of hall, down the stairs – all is creaky. Lights I switch on insult. I open the kitchen blind as part of my workday morning tea ritual. Tea for my wife and I; a companion to our morning showers and prelude to the coffee. We both ease into the coffee.
I watch for the tell-tale billows that foreshadow a dull whistle. Something happened to the tea kettle the first year we owned it. It whistles as poorly as do I. The spaces about the kitchen left unlit by the overheads play plots on my writer’s loom. Hot water. Steam rises to my parched sinuses. I love to watch the shadows spread in each cup. Earl for her, Irish Breakfast for me. Each become Bald Cypress swamps minus the knees. Minus the trees. Stirring, I beat the teabags into submission. Speed dialing strong tea in a way no true devotee would ever contemplate. I just can’t seem to wait. Milk convection. Storm clouds rising. Back with the spoon. A faint light over the trees across the pond. I head back upstairs.
Tree frogs escape with the dark
It’s another Haibun Monday at dVerse Poets Pub. Our tour guide, hayesspencer bids us to include shadows. “Write about shadows! The shadow knows…mwahahahahahahaaaa!” Of course, she was at the bar long before the rest of us. 🙂