A pleasure can be simple and at the same time, so robust.
I rose early this morning, about 5:30, to bake a couple loaves of sourdough bread. It was in the mid-90s yesterday, which made the summer morning coolness exceptionally pleasant as I stepped out to the garden. A few minutes among the vines gave me eggplant, cucumbers, chilis, zucchini, basil, and the first large harvest of heirloom tomatoes—about nine pounds of them.
I have a book of poems to edit today, and I'll do that. I'll concentrate, because I must, but somewhere in the back of my mind will be plans for tonight's dinner.