To mull with cloves, orange, and honey.
A simmer pot full of good intentions
Stirred with the time and care I've denied myself
For far too many seasons.
The sourness of citrus is a stinging reminder
That I'm still here and will continue to be;
A stubborn refusal to disappear with the bang of a gavel
Or the silent denial of self.
The spice of clove and cinnamon is my silent prayer to past me,
My devotion both not-enough and too-late,
but a penance I need to serve Them regardless.
The soft sweetness of honey
Is an offering to the future I've closed myself off to;
A world where I am both deserving and accepting of the love
I so freely give to everyone else.
I carry this concoction around my home
Wafting it to the rafters
Filling this space with just a whisper of the life
I know I can create
If only I'd reach out and take a sip.
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