Mean

We bring in logs in the dry times between the rain and wind. Some are split, their pale inner wood revealed, some are round, their circumference still intact, lengths of branch sawn across. We stack them to wait beside the wood burner. We light the fire after dark, and tend it until we go to bed.

Parsley in a pot on the windowsill, beside a beautiful jug, terracotta and blue and yellow and white, glazed with patterns that seem to have begun life as stripes, that were teased into wiggles somehow (I don't know how). A birthday present.

There seems to be something hidden in the shaft of sunlight illuminating the pale throw over the sofa arm, and my red bag. How our minds search always for meaning.