Nearly dawn, I’m watching the trees
march out of night, surround again
this house; the dogs

twitch in final dreams; the stove —
this orange, unsteady heat and black iron box

breathes warm mirage into the cold,
into the sky; the yellow enamel teapot
does the same inside.

The tea leaves in their white paper pouch
in their skyblue mug — I’ve brewed thousands of cups

like this: wood house, wood fire, the woods
leaning out of the night, of their stubborn life,

the taste of leaves
hot on my tongue.

Leslie Harrison’s forthcoming first book of poems, Displacement, won the Bakeless Prize in poetry. She lives in Western Massachusetts.