The kettle boils.
I step into the open bag,
listening for the distinctive crackle of russet.
Final glances from overripened wheat
touch me till I taste like nutmeg,
and the geraniums in my past
curl into secrets.
Leaves melt into butternuts melt into mouths,
smelling for all the world like your history:
soaked until golden; thoroughly steeped.
I step out;
the kettle boils.
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