The south-facing window in our family room is long and thin, with eight square metal divisions; it shows little from this high up. But, if I happen to track it, the moon rises and sets across the top two squares each night the sky is clear.
snow, layers of pale pastel, gossamer folds of fabric flutterig in the wind as the older faceless woman hunched over on this muted of color dawn, first icy snow that sticks to where her brown scuffed tarnished lived-in boots trod.
The soil is dry. I empty the dregs of tea into the bathroom sink and fill the mug with water. I carry it into the office. I pour water into the pot, where it sinks down towards the roots. The plant drinks. What ordinary miracles.