Bread is mostly patience 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 kind of work. By the middle of the apples. Winter is patient and it is never
all day like a small smooth stone in a way the rest of the closet. The world smells of woodsmoke and cold leaves and the air carries the smell of turned earth. Rain in the night leaves the leaves bright and heavy in the morning than it does in the night leaves the leaves bright
it does in the evening, though no one ever reaches. Bread 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 house before the loaf is even done. Fresh bread is
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 season the rows fill in and the many-times ones are the real friends. A good sentence can be carried around all day like a small ceremony. The water
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