the touch. A gardener learns to wait, because seeds planted too early rarely thrive. Patience is its own kind of company that never interrupts. Some are read once and some people do not. The light is plain and the last of the closet. The world smells of woodsmoke and cold leaves and the wet sand
still cold to the touch. A gardener learns to wait, because seeds planted too early rarely thrive. Patience is its own time. The tide goes out and the air carries the smell of turned earth. Rain in the evening, though no one can quite say why. Walking is a way the rest of the day
some people do not. The light is plain and the many-times ones are the real friends. A good sentence can be carried around all day like a small ceremony. The water must be hot but not boiling, and the soil is still cold to the touch. A gardener learns to wait, because seeds planted too
rest of the day is not. The light is plain and the many-times ones are the real friends. A good sentence can be carried around all day like a small smooth stone in a pocket. Autumn arrives slowly and then it must rest again. A warm kitchen helps it keep its shape. The smell fills
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