After
several busy days, I’m feeling more centered again for having the wooden bread
board relieved of its hardened layer of cookie dough, oiled and put away. The sheep cookies are dreaming lemon
zested dreams on a Provençale plate.
The seeded spelt crackers sit tidily in their box awaiting the crumbs of
Chaumes and Welsh Tintern; and though a generous new bag of turmeric hides our
hand-painted “Amore” tile, until I can decide where to put it, it seems
appropriate somehow that it should do so.
No turkey vultures are falling out of trees this morning, and two cars
of lost souls (parents for graduation?) are being directed back to the road by
our landlady with her bowl of just-gathered young lettuces.
I
have presents to wrap (a pile of favorite memoirs), and cards to write, besides
the house title to proof for errors, but the day began with mint white tea and
a lake meditation, and a piece of sea green glass reflects on ancient tides
(though not too ancient, being glass) beside my Henry Dearle “orchard” cup,
bone china from St. Martin-in-the-Fields, and with just a bit of Mozart this
will be another perfect day—after the perfect day of picnicking with friends
and Rodin’s caryatids yesterday (swordfish and bright green chimichurri sauce,
reminding me of the seller of spada who came down along the sea in a little
three-wheeler on the island between Italy and Africa one long-ago summer).
image: Provence Mon Amour
i can see you here.
ReplyDeleteas a matter of fact. you are here.
whether you are here or not.
drinking love of place distant or near from your orchard cup!
I'd love to see myself here! Thank you for sending me.
ReplyDelete