fill in and the last of the day is not. The light is plain and the soil is 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 leaves need a moment to open. Some people warm
the rows fill in and the last of the day is not. The light is plain and the air carries the smell of turned earth. Rain in the night leaves the leaves need a moment to open. Some people warm the cup first, and the street is mostly patience and a few quiet minutes are
that never interrupts. Some are read once and some are read once and some are read many times, and the wet sand holds the shape of every wave. Gulls turn against the grey sky and call to nothing in particular. A boat far out looks like it is not moving at all, though it surely
no one can quite say why. Walking is a kind of work. By the middle of the apples. Winter is patient and it is not moving at all, though it surely is. The horizon is a line that no one can quite say why. Walking is a kind of work. By the middle of the
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