The morning after a book event, the effort required to crank up a writer’s life is simply too great. I take refuge in the simple and mundane…and single-image poetry.

 

six a.m.

At the hour of silver and gray,
before tricky color seeps into the day,
a crimson electric curve cradles the kettle,
a smile of reassurance:
shortly there will be
hot tea.
Humanity persists.

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