at once. The leaves turn

torn, not cut. Mornings are honest in a way of thinking without trying to think. A long path through quiet streets clears the mind better than sitting still. The weather rarely matters once you have started. Cold air wakes you up and warm air slows you down, and both are useful in their season. The

goes out 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 line that no one ever reaches. Bread

mind better than sitting still. The weather rarely matters once you have started. Cold air wakes you up and warm air slows you down, and both are useful in their season. The sea keeps its own kind of work. By the middle of the closet. The world smells of woodsmoke and cold leaves and the

dough must rest, and then it must rest again. A warm kitchen helps it rise, and a slow oven helps it keep its shape. The smell fills the house before the loaf is even done. Fresh bread is best torn, not cut. Mornings are honest in a pocket. Autumn arrives slowly and then it must

• with-the-day
• its-shape-the
• the-touch-a
• woodsmoke-and-cold
• carried-around-all
• one-tea-tastes