The kettle hums a silver tune,
A trembling song of rising heat;
It dreams beneath the afternoon,
Of leaves and water soon to meet.
A whisper builds into a cry,
Soft steam escaping through its beak;
A breath of clouds begins to fly,
As time grows warm and slowly steep.
Then comes the call—sharp, bright, and clear,
A summons from its iron throat;
Pour gently now, the moment’s here,
Where quiet joy in porcelain floats.
https://skepticskaddish.com/2025/11/19/w3-prompt-186-weave-written-weekly/
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