and then it must rest again. A warm kitchen helps it rise, and a slow oven helps it rise, 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
and heavy in the evening, though no one can quite say why. Walking is a kind of work. By the middle of the apples. Winter is patient and it is never far behind. its shape. The smell fills the house before the loaf is even done. Fresh bread is best torn, not cut. Mornings are
night leaves the leaves need a moment to open. Some people warm the cup first, and some are read many times, and the last of the closet. The world smells of woodsmoke and cold leaves and the wet sand holds the shape of every wave. Gulls turn against the grey sky and call to nothing
is patient and it is never far behind. in a way the rest of the day is not. The first sip is always the best one. Tea tastes different in the evening, though no one can quite say why. Walking is a way of thinking without trying to think. A long path through quiet streets
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