I make tea in the same imprecise way
every morning, at more or less the same time.
It’s still dark when I plod to the kitchen,
but that’s changing.
There’s a low rumble behind the clouds,
probably an airplane on its way to America.
Wind in the chimney makes a similar sound.
Gentle patter of rain on the roof
of the greenhouse,
day and night.
February has been very wet this year.
I’m not sure what love is.
That’s not what I mean. What I mean is
I only noticed this morning that you’ve cut
back the fern over the sink.