Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Poetry Calvacade 2009: Poem 14
French Press
I lie in bed, wide awake
An echo of my mother
Says I must get up, get busy,
But for now I lay still.
Our coffee was terrible, even
With a press and good beans
Until we forgot it one morning
And left it to steep.
Hulitt, my teacher,
He calls it brooding
You can't write a sermon
All in a rush.
