Tea Kettle

A copper tea kettle whistles on a freshly stoked woodstove, announcing "Time for cheer; 'tis tea time!" 
But none hears. It waits, shrilling out invitation, begging to serve. It shakes and jumps. And then it quietens. 
The drink it would have offered dissipates, joining the faded smoky stillness of the abandoned livingroom, where but a few moments before held every thing, everyone, needed to make it a room for the living and for beauty. 
Blackness grabs at the the undersides of the kettle. Scorched patterns rise up its barren body. It cracks, then explodes into a useless vessel unable to ever hold water again. The fire submits, too, at last accepting that there are none left. None left at all to tend and feed and cherish.