Another poem, not quite in sonnet form

March 18-20

The leaves are shredded, stuffed in porous bags
Like fine black powder, pencil-shaving fine.
The bags are shut, are sewn together shut,
Then tinned and sold. Now tin and bags are mine.

The tin of shredded leaves adorns my desk.
Inside, the bags a columned form, a stack.
The column shrinks, and shortens, drops, declines
As bags are stripped, are stolen from their pack.

The bag of leaves is sitting in a cup
Awaiting death by drowning, death by heat,
Awaiting scalding water. Soon it comes,
And boiling burns a brown from leaves' defeat.

So take a bag of leaves from here, from me,
And put it in your cup, and make your tea.

----

And now, to eat some breakfast. Perhaps I'll drink another cup of tea along with it.