Nearly dawn, I’m watching the trees
march out of night, surround again
this house; the dogs
twitch in final dreams; the stove—
this orange, unsteady heat and black iron box
breathes warm mirage into the cold,
into the sky; the yellow enamel teapot
does the same inside.
The tea leaves in their white paper pouch
in their skyblue mug—I’ve brewed thousands of cups
like this: wood house, wood fire, the woods
leaning out of the night, of their stubborn life,
the taste of leaves
hot on my tongue.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWMWUHU85QvO_yLEahJiMF5NmO071w97sQsJiwvHtgaU2eaftHYmaJJ-yqHdtqPyyprB-YnbceEaMY_AREO_oH6ffmJOKpLm3877sDGEdU2nImF1ub7igwJURGcqMWt0ZUqEDg3-c18gI/s1600/images-2.jpg)
Photography credit: "Winter Dawn Through the Woods," by Steve Thompson, November 20, 2010.
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