Morning, September, the day the lab results are due

Fragrant amber
leaves hit bottom
with ceramic
chime.

Sleep fogs
thoughts.

Steam fogs
glasses.

Impatient whistle sings.
Hot water insists
leaves release
essence.

Your hand and
mine reach for the
old, white sugar bowl.

And then,
the waiting.

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Tracie Nichols writes poetry and facilitates group writing experiences from under the wide reach of two old Sycamore trees in southeastern Pennsylvania. She is the co-founder of the Embodied Writers writing group and a Transformative Language Artist helping women write themselves home. You can find Tracie on her website.

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