I was writing this morning.  About dreams and summer.  I was writing about a second cup of tea and the view outside.  About the sounds of morning and the promise of the day.   Then I looked to my right.  At my kitchen.  At dishes that clutter my sink.  The trash I gathered to go out.  A dead rosemary plant.   a floor that needs swept.  and a clock that says 8:21…  The promise of the day.

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