Green garden, handpicked berries, her company, her soft white cotton dress, pouring orthodox tea, with freshly baked bread and sweet butter, some wine in a cup, in the backyard of our cottage, the soil and herbs growing and their earthy scents, humming sapphic poetries to each other, collecting flowers for each other in a woven basket, whipping cream to bake yet another strawberry cake.
Ah, the view from the kitchen. When you peel oranges. When you brew tea. When you wake up, groggy eyes and walk into the kitchen for a cup of soothing coffee and a warm stream of sunlight hugs you a good morning. The kitchen window. When you stare outside at the sunset painting your kitchen orange, while you stir your vegetable soup. Or toast your bread and cheese. Or bake your bread. Stare at the empty street at night, bees and insects humming near the streetlight bulb. The kitchen window. The window to the core of a content and well-fed soul.
Is this a dream? Are we in a dream? Or, are we living the dream? And, whatever it is, hope we never escape it.
- Oizys.