A man wakes to the sound of a mourning dove and is reminded that he has grief waiting for him. The poem never says what he is mourning, only that he has been crying and will cry again. This morning he decides to postpone it, at least until after breakfast.
What follows is a small, ordinary routine: the kettle, the muffin, the tea, a chair by the window. A goldfinch among the sunflowers lifts his spirits, and he feels guilty for enjoying it. The dove keeps calling, and he admits he can't delay forever, but he stretches out the tea as long as he can.
The mood is quiet, tender, and a little wry. His bargaining with his own sadness feels honest and even gently funny. The ending is the heart of it: he sees his reflection in the cup, blurred and slowly refilling drop by drop. The image suggests tears are already arriving, whether he permits them or not.