Morning sunlight spearing a windowpane,
inspiring a round of tasks to do:
cleaning kitchen dishes, haul wood to the stove,
whose maw gobbles logs like a stack of tarts;
messages, written reports to compose,
clothes to clean with whittle, rattle, and slush;
all the mundane thig-a-ma-jigs with nuts,
nails, bolts, plethora of screws, and hammer
beat in my brain with peculiar echo.
I’m adroitly incompetent with most
of these tools, can’t even saw a straight line,
though I can put music in a writ line.
Yet the latter accomplishes but naught.
Little is achieved with a magic thought.