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

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