Steaming cup of jasmine tea warming my hand, I stare out the window. February snow flutters softly down. Earlier, on the way to work, it blew forward in the car’s headlights, a million fluffy missiles harmlessly striking the window.
The wood stove hums on and off in the basement, singing its endless song of warmth and burning logs. My husband piled logs close to the stove while I worked. It’s time to fill the wood room later today. We stack these dry logs near the fire to allow wet snowy logs days to dry before burning.
Jasmine tea steam rolls upward from the cup, into the air of our cozy cabin in the woods. I love the taste of jasmine. It curls on the tongue, memories of ancient eastern ports. It smells of enchanted flower. It smells of something perhaps the snow flakes dreamed as they descended from the gray-tinged clouds.
The wood stove motor finishes its song. Time to stoke its belly with protein of wood and bark. My belly lies full beneath soft breath, eased by a lunch of leftover Szechuan stir-fry sizzled with sesame oil and shoyu. The dessert of almond butter mixed with honey upon toasted Ezekiel bread is no sweeter than this log which feeds the hungry fire.
Time to rise. In this mist of Jasmine tea, woodsmoke and fullness…the snow still flutters outside into deep drifts of itself.