feeling a little off today
or a bit lost or maybe both
and stuck in a slow gear
so I turn to “the ritual”
spin the dial click
and flick on the flame
hear the kettle’s low growl
rise in octaves to finally burst
in a soprano scream of steam
lean the bag of crushed yellow flowers
inside the curved porcelain and pour
take the facial of chamomile vapor
feel it snake up my nose and
dunk the wet bouquet once
twice four times and wait
the tradition the formality
the rite the ceremony the ritual
perhaps it is teamaking itself
that pauses the pull of affliction
sits me down refuses to budge
slow breathes the tightness
gathers at the knot
works the noose loose
as if the elements of the boil
the bag the dip and the wait
tack and turn the page of my day
which explain feeling better
well before the first sip
and the undrunk portion
I didn’t need after the last