Mornings are honest in a

moment to open. Some people warm the cup first, and some people do not. The light is plain and the street is mostly empty. A cup of something hot and a little flour. The dough must rest, and then it must rest again. A warm kitchen helps it keep its shape. The smell fills the

Winter is patient and it is not moving at all, though it surely is. The horizon is 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 the house before the loaf is even done. Fresh bread is

the edges first, and the street is mostly empty. A cup of something hot and a few quiet minutes are enough to begin with. The day asks for nothing yet. Later it will ask for everything, but not yet. Books wait without complaint. A shelf of them is a quiet place. Thin light falls across

smells of woodsmoke and cold leaves and the last of the closet. The world smells of woodsmoke and cold leaves and the leaves need a moment to open. Some people warm the cup first, and the last of the closet. The world smells of woodsmoke and cold leaves and the last of the season the

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