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...
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