The poem opens with a question that sounds simple but isn't: are we present? The speaker seems to be asking whether he and his wife are really here, in the moment, or somewhere else in their heads. Then comes a pun. "Present" can mean a gift, and he says he gives his wife "this morning," as if the morning itself were a present. But the next line turns it over: "mourning things." Morning and mourning sound identical, so the gift comes mixed with grief.
The last three lines push downward. "The cellar of the cellar of today" suggests a place far below the surface of an ordinary day, where sadness or loss is stored. Judging by the wording, the speaker feels that even a calm morning carries something buried and quiet. The mood is tender but shadowed: close, intimate, and a little uneasy. It's a small poem that suggests being present means facing what lies under the day, not just enjoying its surface.