—the midpoint of early November’s quiet unraveling, trees are nearly bare, the cupboards fuller than the heart, and everything feels a little past its date

Today’s poem turns to the promises we store like pantry goods sealed tight, labeled neat, slowly losing potency.

You kept it where the sunlight fades,
behind the flour, past the tea,
a promise jarred and safely sealed,
to open “when there’s time,” maybe.

The label’s worn, the ink half gone.
You can’t recall what’s written there.
Something about a trip, a plan,
or laughter left for better air.

You twist the lid. It sighs, resigned.
The scent is faint, like something kind.
Still sweet, but thinner than it was,
a ghost of warmth, a hint of trust.

You close it fast, then put it back.
No sense in tasting what’s not fresh.
Some vows are better left preserved,
if only to remind what’s flesh.

And though it sits behind the rice,
you check it once in every light,
to see if maybe it still breathes,
to prove the waiting’s still polite.

📜 Shelf Life of a Promise – The Recipe

Ingredients:

Instructions:
Write a promise on the lid before brewing. Boil only half the water you meant to. Stir counterclockwise to delay forgetting. Sip once, taste the expiration. Store what’s left for another someday.