I went for a walk this morning, the first in a very long time. The air was cool, the sky overcast. A neighbor’s bush had a halo of fire. Farther along, a tree with leaves of yellow had a vine, growing high in the canopy, dripping leaves of dull scarlet. Upon closer inspection, its trunk was scored with shoots climbing and encircling the bark-covered column.

Continuing my walk, I came across a house for sale. White with a gray skirt. And a door the color of butternut squash. Or of a rose leaf in autumn.

New Year’s Eve morning. Four days of freezing weather ahead. Today the weather is brisk but properly bundled up the air is bracing.

I pass a Christmas tree thrown into the ditch along my street. Stripped of almost all its finery, a plain tin ornament is still attached by a loop of rough twine. I snap it off and slip it into my pocket.

Early on this Sunday morning I am almost alone with the gray skies and Christmas decorations.  At the place where my path begins to turn back home, I see in a distance too far for hailing a man walking his dog.  Three quarters of the way home, I stop to watch as a leaf floats to the pavement at my feet. I look up at a tree made colorful by autumn foliage. Two women out walking together greet me.

Nearly home, I stop at the house with the abandoned Christmas tree. I carefully place the tin ornament on the porch, next to the wheels of the baby stroller.

As I pass my neighbor’s house, the red, green, and yellow of her Christmas lights, the same colors as my tree of falling leaves, bring warmth to a cold winter’s morning.

I have not been here in over a year, although I have thought about this place from time to time.

Can I make a fresh start? I would like to make a commitment to show up once a day, but I am hesitant. Life is so full of “must be done” tasks.

But isn’t that all the more reason to show up here? To take the time to appreciate the poetry of everyday life?

Yesterday I made breakfast for my husband. I’ve been doing that since January. I’d been on retreat and somehow I always think of my grandmother when I’m on retreat.  It must be the stewed prunes. (You laugh, but it’s true.)

One of the things I remember about her was that she always cooked three meals a day. In particular, I remember the breakfasts. We would listen to the news on the radio and she would make coffee for my grandfather and tea for herself.  She would make bacon and eggs or hot cereal.  She would section a grapefruit and slice a banana into it.  She would make raisin bread toast. She would pour orange juice into a small glass with blue hand-painted flowers.

The windows would steam, creating a warm cocoon. There was something reassuring in this, reassuring and something more.

Yesterday, I made hot cereal and toast.  Tea for both myself and my husband. And as I buttered the toast and set out the honey, poured the tea, I thought about poet Adrienne Rich, sweeping her kitchen floor and thinking of the generations of women before her who, they too, had swept their kitchen floors.

And there was something reassuring in this, in the pouring of tea and the buttering of toast and in thinking of women who had gone before me, making tea and sweeping the kitchen floor.

Something reassuring and something more.

From up north, my sister sends a photo of her husband. Not a short man, he stands waist-deep in snow. Living in the country, they were snow-bound for four days. In the city, my brother was shut in for three.

Here down south, the cold front brings rain. On the sofa, shared body warmth and hand-crocheted afghans keep us warm as we huddle around the television, the new hearth.

On my morning round, I meet two dog-walkers. One straggles behind me, the other walks toward me. Both have knitted caps pulled low over their brows. Both caps are the dull red of cranberries.

Christmas at my grandmother’s house was a tiny pink Christmas tree, bowls of ribbon candy, and a wreath on the kitchen door. It was always the same wreath, hung year after year. Small, made of yellowed translucent garland, and adorned with a small silver bell.

Up North, winters are cold. We children would pound up the steps and throw ourselves against the kitchen door. The door would put a mock resistance, then yield gracefully. We would spill into the warmth of that room, its windows steamy from cooking, accompanied by the soft tinkle of the bell.

Now, every Christmas, I hang a wreath of fresh pine and cedar on my front door. This year a friend makes a wreath from the boxwood and bayleaf in her garden. She adds cinnamon and red ribbon.

I add the bell.

At every opening and closing of my door, somewhere, an angel gets its wings.