21 Days From My Window
Through my window this morning I see the cute little house directly across the street. She has burnt orange, brick walls, white shutters and doors, and a grey pitched roof. One of my Bradford pear tree friends stands in the yard, and casts dancing shadows across the lawn. The blowing leaves play beneath its branches. Several bushes and flower beds flank the house’s green, carpeted porch and steps. They are neat and trim, even in the absence of the color and bounty of spring and summer. A bird bath and a number of small statues seem to beckon visitors to come for a closer look, and a green park bench invites them to linger a while longer on the porch. Red throw pillows grace the bench, and that same red color is echoed in the Christmas wreath ribbon on the front door and in the poinsettias on the porch. As the wind stirs I note that the glass door is not completely shut. It opens slightly and then closes again in the wind, as though offering me entrance and a cup of coffee. A warm cup sounds good. So, I turn from the window to go brew up some tea.
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