My morning starts with Tchaikovsky.
It oils the gears, readies the mind,
But it’s not just my writing spark
That’s ignited by the melody.
Introductions of soft, sunrise strings
Beckon pebble tenants
To claim the fallen scraps;
Crumbs for the young ones.
Two by two, through and through,
To strings and brass, violins and trumpets,
The dweller ants advance towards
My buttery breakfast crumpets.