I think back to making the tea,

filling the kettle from the cold water tap

as I looked out the kitchen window

at the stone walls and patches of yesterday’s snow,

then turning a knob on the stove,

putting a flaming wooden match to the gas jet,

and heating the cup with hot water,

as I thought of my mother doing the same.

I pulled a teabag from the little box

and a cloud in the shape of England passed over me.

The boiling water spit from the kettle,

and every season seemed sadder than the last one.

I cut a lemon wedge

and thought about my wife on another continent,

and when I lowered a spoonful

of shining honey into the dark water,

the sick and the poor

crossed my mind as well as soldiers and the police.

A Rhine maiden swam along the bottom of a river

and a man on crutches swung by.

A steaming cup and a room full of sunlight,

a good hand to lift the cup to my lips

and another to wave pen

over a wide open notebook –

for a few minutes, that was enough –

to be alone with tea

on a Sunday morning in February –

then came the poem and not knowing when it was done.