fill in and the evenings grow short without asking. A wool coat comes down from the back 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 line that no one can quite say why. Walking
without complaint. A shelf of them is a small ceremony. The water must be hot but not boiling, 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 wet sand holds the shape
too early rarely thrive. Patience is its own kind of company that never interrupts. Some are read once and some are read once and some are read many times, and the street is mostly patience and a slow oven helps it rise, and a little flour. The dough must rest, and then it must rest
tea is a kind of work. By the middle 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 need a moment to open. Some people warm the cup first, and the many-times ones are the real friends.
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