an almanac of one day
Spring Equinox, Waning
The kettle sings its first note at half-past six. Steam curls upward like a question that needs no answer. Outside, the garden holds its breath between frost and thaw, each blade of grass wearing a crystal sleeve that will vanish with the first true ray of sun.
This is the hour of preparations and small rituals, when the day is still a blank page and every gesture is a first sentence.
The garden releases its hoarded warmth as the last light gathers in the west like a closing curtain of amber silk.
Shadows lengthen into long blue sentences that the earth writes across itself as evening begins its gentle dictation.
Somewhere a nightingale rehearses the opening measures of its nocturnal symphony, tentative and then assured.
one day