The Boiling Point
(A poem based on the lesson of strength, change, and choice)
She said, "I'm tired, this life’s too tough,
The road is rocky, the ride is rough."
Her father smiled, and with no word,
Walked to the kitchen...silent, unheard.
He placed three pots on fire that day,
With boiling water in each to stay.
A potato in one, so firm and round,
An egg in another, without a sound.
Coffee beans in the last he tossed,
Then quietly waited...no advice, no cost.
Minutes passed, just heat and steam,
While she sat still, lost in her dream.
He placed them out and asked, “Now see,
What stands before you? Tell it to me.”
She said, “Potato. Egg. And coffee too.”
He nodded once, “Let me explain to you.”
The potato, once hard, is now soft and pale,
The egg that was fragile, now wears a shell like mail.
But the coffee beans? They made their stand,
They changed the water with their hand.
“You see,” he said, “We all face heat,
But what you do makes pain or sweet.
Some melt down, some build a wall,
But some rise up and change it all.”
"So who are you when the fire is near?
Do you break in pain or persevere?
Melt like the potato, tough turned weak?
Or like the egg, grow a hardened streak?”
“Or do you rise like coffee’s grace,
And fill the room with warmth and taste?”
Hardship comes, but here’s the clue...
It doesn’t define. Your response does you.
You can collapse, or close your heart,
Or choose to make your pain an art.
So rise, dear soul, and let them see
Even boiled, you can set hearts free.
Copyright ©
Krishika Upadhyay
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