Haze grays the green and yellow trees and

A mile over the lake water. Breakfast here

Is literal enough, the eggs have onion in them.

And the black hot coffee makes clear

The business of the day ahead, as the hills will be

When the mist burns off, when the sun

Falls all through the air, end noon stirs itself

To do outdoors and in kitchens what must be done.

Now the other shore is cool, not real and not awake.

Our minds are still almost our own

As they were in sleep, in the dream, on the shore

Of memory in the harbor of bone.

Knives on plates, spoons against cups knock, time

Moves on to the third coffee. The hill

Cuts blue sky with a long-backed blade of green,

And the lake glints sharp as my will

To do some honor to the day's necessary work,

Also to lay a cornerstone, crack a whip,

Invent a fuel, discover an Elizabethan play or two,

And build, name, and launch a ship.