It’s eggs and muffins and bacon and juice

and potatoes and pancakes for dinner

and I’m looking at the bubbling

smelling the cooking imagining nothing

beyond this room

except tea later

when it’s clean and all is away

when stars begin to show through the veil

a light winter wind moves the brown limbs

on the tree dormant not far from me

as I sit dormant but aware

of distant blooms and grand schemes

that may or may not ever happen.