Strong Black Tea with Honey and Lemon

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.