There is no milk in the house
And everything is bare.
I drink black tea
in the early morning light,
and idly hope that the day's beauty will remain,
that I will write a line like Sheenagh Pugh's:
The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow
that seemed hard frozen;
may it happen for you.
Pugh meant snow
but her keyboard came up with sorrow.
May my keyboard play such tricks on me!

Outside the small ambit of such hopes,
the day is creeping up
like a large bug
with questions in its poetry-killing eyes.

I close my eyes and think of lines to write.
I drink black tea in the early morning light.