My wife has been home for a few days, giving me some opportunity to write truly at leisure, which is when I usually find myself writing poetry, not when I am working on writing, but when I am merely writing. Here is something that I wrote yesterday.
Through the afternoon window,
More cloud-silver than sun-gold,
Tracing lines on my water glass,
Quivering and refracted,
In the flesh,
The incarnation of a setting sun.