I rise lightly as birds sing their morning song,

gleeful and grateful for their message.

I tiptoe to the coffee maker, careful not to wake the baby.

Pressure simmers beneath the surface boiling, boiling.

My heart aches.

The baby wakes, happy and sweet.

We wander to the garden to take a peek.

To my surprise, lemon balm flourishes.

My mood lifts as the pressure turns to smoke.

I delicately grab a few leaves.

It feels only right to make a cup of tea,

to soothe the cracked iceberg that is me.

We walk into the house.

Baby hits her head on the threshold, perched on my hip.

She cries and I do too.

The world tilts a cry, a thrum, a flood of warmth

that rises, shakes, spills, and then softens us both.

I sip the lemon balm tea slowly,

from my favorite cup blue as night,

moons and stars, a whispered promise follow your dreams.

The tea warms me,

and I taste joy in the ocean beneath the iceberg.

Gently, with green leaves, tiny hands,

and a cup that knows how to hold my heart,

a lemon balm Wednesday unfolds delicate and frail.