Lined up on the kitchen worktop
are three teapots.
One red.
One blue.
One yellow.
In the red
a flame licks the inside,
burning without wick or fuel.
I hold my hand over the spout
where the heat
warms
my purpling fingers.
I move to the blue.
Inside that,
a grey cloud swirls around,
pouring rain from the spout.
I gather it up,
wetting my peeling lips.
I look to the yellow.
I know what’s inside without touching.
A single seed, freshly sprouted,
waits for me.
I mustn’t touch.
I must touch.
If I give in,
I’ll live again.
But living
means emotions,
hurts and loves that I can’t control.
I’m not ready.
Not yet.
Treeshallow Musings 