There is a time at the end of the day, as I prepare the evening meal or do the dishes in preparation for bed, when a sweet meloncholy overcomes me; a pensiveness that cannot be subdued.



At these times, I pour myself a bit of harvest wine. I kick off my shoes, pull a chair up to the kitchen sink, climb the great mountain of domestic matriarchy and push open the sky light over my humble and intimate kitchen.



My Russian often finds me here, observing the moss growing on my roof, staring out across the valley, sometimes listening to the ringing of bells. He has learned to let me be, but stays nearby, hovering in a protective ease.



I have wondered on occasion if someone else has seen my head poking out of my roof...and what that must look like! So if you ever happen upon my street, and see me there lost in an unexplainable world all my own, do call out my name! I shall pour you a glass of reverie.