Writer, in the early hours

The morning’s gray. The kettle whistles steam

into the dullness, stillness, piercing through

another winter dawn. Unshaken dreams

still cling to me, my sight and skin, like dew.

The pages hide unfound, unwritten, out

beyond my fingers’ reach. Uncertainly,

I try to catch a scent beside the doubt

I’ve woken with and this still-steeping tea.

But when all’s said and done, that’s what I’ve got:

a foggy dream, this doubt, a morning hope

to hold alongside tea. (That line is not

a real insight: I wrote another trope.)

Stop. Breathe and smell, and sip my morning tea—

my anchor, thing that’s real. Thing to taste, see.