Thistle Tea
She brewed it slow,
the thistle steeped—
a greyish brown
in porcelain grace.
Each sip, a sting—
a bitter bloom,
but she smiled,
claiming peace.
At first, a wince,
then less, then none—
until the taste
was home enough.
No sugar added,
no honey balm,
just thorn and grass
and quiet aches.
“How did she bear?”
they often ask.
“It’s the way I like it,”
she often says.
But bitterness
never just begins—
it’s learned,
one sip a day.
Until bitterness
becomes a friend,
and even the sting—
a kind of warmth.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
