Warm marmalade, draped over crisp cuts of crusts;
Tea sits in the mug, patient and wholesome.
Tall, cool orange in the glass stands entirely still,
And the newspaper remains pristine, inviolate.
Low grey light sifts through the glaze of the kitchen window.
The teaspoon rests. The sugar in its bowl
Would chime clearly, when graced with a glance from the butter knife:
But you resist temptation, and all is quiet, untouched.
It occurs to you, as the kettle comes full circle
In its ritual, toward a state of heated calm
And simmers soft to a state of drowsiness:
That morning does not break, but is broken in.