I snap off the cavilling complaint of the news
And in the sudden silence hear the wind scour the rocks.
I used to have a friend who told me once
"When you are sad or sore,
Make something: a poem, a table, a meal."
I measure flour, knead dough, and set some bread to rise
And think of urban_homestead baking bread
So far away, still waiting.
Bread rising, dog walked, friends thought of, poem forming,
It's not such a bad evening, such a bad world,
I settle down to read, with tea and whisky.