On the boiling of water

Whoever said a watched pot never boils
never listened to the soft hum of the water
as it unfurls into tendrils of steam,
never felt the rising heat warm his face in the morning chill,
never saw the lazy swirl of the surface
before it breaks into a song of bubbles,
into a cauldron of promises and spells
the watching of which keeps me,
for a moment,
on the threshold between the past and the future,
pondering neither.

©2020 Anna Witte