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Perhaps it is laziness, this tendency of mine towards physical inaction.  I half-reproach myself with the thought as I sit by the wide open window, feeling breeze after breeze -cleansed by last night's rains- a cup of tea in my hands.  I realize that I have no desire to move.

In the garden, thyme, mint, and lavender plantings sit in flimsy pots -probably buffeted to the ground by an especially robust breeze by now- awaiting their home in sturdy ground.

But I remain at my roost by the window, drinking more tea, letting my mind wander where it will, while a poem  I've just read lingers in the crevices of consciousness.  It is a pleasure I am reluctant to part with, even if the alternative has its charms.

The clouds shift, momentarily muting the light that plays glancingly at my feet.  Stray words from the poem return, and this time I hear them differently.