IN ABSENTIA

This morning, six-thirty,

the light of the sun

flickers through curtains 

to brighten the room. 
 

Two glasses, one empty the other half-full:

the dregs of vin ordinaire darkened and dull. 

Wind in the willow tree

outside the window

throws a quick shadow

across the stone floor. 

The corkscrew, still holding the prize of the night,

lies on the carpet: a stab in the sunlight. 

Beside it the candle

has dribbled red wax

down from the bookshelf

on unopened mail.  
 

On the bench, the broken bread, Caullomiers —

the poem, unfinished, crumpled on the chair. 

~ Pete Morgan

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 Happiness is rarely absent; it is we that know not of its presence. ~ Maurice Maeterlinck