I offer my morning poem, though now it is evening. I have gone from the moon in the sky to darkness now, and the moon will appear again.
Coffee, Waffles, and Ink
with the white light of the moon.
I fill the pot with water,
spoon the coffee in,
and push the button.
I mix flour, baking power, sugar,
soda, and salt,
add eggs, vanilla,
butter, oil, and milk.
I pour a portion of the batter
into the waffle iron,
and watch it rise and steam,
content in its division of squares,
that connect.
That is when ink says I am here
to record,
and I say,
not now.
I want to watch butter melt
with syrup,
like willows with streams -
