Still Life

Sunday morning. A wooden table is set for breakfast with a pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice and a plate of warm rye toast. A book of poetry sits beside a cup of Earl Grey tea, half-full, steeped in citrus. It will be one of several cups that emerge around the cabin as you lose yourself in your writing. Across the space, a cracked window carries in a cool breeze and the scent of cedar. Outside the first frost has started to set in. But inside, you’re in a world of your own making—both on and off the page.