I stand in the kitchen, looking out the window. Morning light has barely woven in the threads of dawn, grey mist purrs in the bare tree branches, frost clouds the car windshield. And what is that, on the wet grass, I can barely see it, why it is one of the first robins of the year, its head cocked, listening to something very far away, or so close as to be inside of her.
Here in the kitchen I place the coffee filter in the cradle, fill the water reservoir, measure 45 grams of grounds for 8 cups, pour it into the filter, close the door, set the coffee pot under the spout, push it on.
Someone told me once that poets don’t know where they are going, but surely are on their way. Like the robin, I look out the window at things in a foggy mist, and listen to what is inside of me.