World was different than one before in rise of the new-day dawn. Gone was the ice in cover of limbs and sickled hang from roof and awns.
Snow of the lawn was mirror smooth, melted in sun of yesterday and frozen back in night.
From pink and rose of begun dawn-glow, sun struck gold on the white and morning lived in reflect of a doubled radiance.
She looked on the sight, on gold as light, as she poured the first of her morning’s coffee. The pot set back in nook, recess beyond window and covered in verdure of vine-runner fall in life-spill from pot on shelf above in hold of further pots, glasses, and framed memory—moment frozen black and white in morning dawn of light and gold.
She studied the vine, followed with eyes its fall, its leafed descent from shelf to counter’s face then crawling seek over marbled forward toward window’s light, its leaves more live, open-spread and upward-reaching in the richness of the window’s shine and glow of doubled light.
At island, he rested drinking coffee as well, hours into his morning reading and writes that gifted him a morning-beginning peace that lasted long into most days. He smiled in study of her in stare, in studying of the vine, and he believed she, like the vine, shone more alive and radiant in the richness of window’s light: her skin a warmer hue, her body more fecund, attractive and spirited in illume of the double radiance.
“What do you want to do today?” she asked, inquiring from stand before window, framed in the background sun.
She was beautiful in the light.
In center of island, a white leather journal rested closed. He lowered his coffee mug in rest to island’s face and with opened hand, reached for the journal before, and brought it to place beside him.
“Why don’t you write?” he offered in ask.
“What would I write?” She hadn’t a thought composed of words.
“I don’t know,” he answered, no expectation or further asking. “The stories and thoughts would be yours. I don’t know what they are, only that they are in you. What a beautiful day and dawn to begin,” he smiled, pausing, then spoke on, “What is something of you worth telling and offering as art?”
She mused, contemplated, and he watched her thoughts turn in.
“It doesn’t have to be anything. There’s no need to overthink or burden with an expectance. Sometimes it’s fun to just start and try and see what comes. Some of the best you’ll ever find is what appears when you aren’t trying…”
She lowered her coffee to counter place. Hands free, they combed and drew through ends of her long fine hair. Slow of smooth of hand’s comb and stroke, she mused.
Body in stand, legs crossed at ankles as weight of her body bore to support of counter’s edge, she looked outward on the double radiance, seeing with eyes as mind formed differed visions.
A silence fell in room of brightness and illume. Neither minded. It was serenity to have peace in share of togethered-silence.
From the silence, he spoke ending of hope and words’ intent.
“It was just a thought,” he pressed and urged no further. “It’s just that I’m always inspired—awed—in dawns and suns as this, and when I am, the words just come as if gifted from the light.
I just thought, maybe if you tried, you’d find, for you, it lives and gifts the same.
She smiled in listen and absorbing of his words, absorbing too the light and double radiance as she felt a warmth, deeper than surface and skin, growing in the heart.
She raised her coffee, strong single drink and returned to nook and vined hide of coffee pot’s reside. She filled her mug, topping off, then joined at island’s seat: white journal before, sunlight beyond, as Words of her spirit rose as if giftings of the light, true as he had told.