The morning’s bakery is a silent one. And the sun is the humblest of bakers, but soft stirrings of lemon-cream light kiss the curtains, and tenderness teases the soul awake: lifting, rising in the warmth (the quiet promise) of a pure stillness that melts on the tongue. Notes of honey, round droplets of the softest, slowest gold flow like day across patient, waking hills across eyelids pale, and faces turned toward dreams. Yellow and white, clouds of flour and air grey earls the color of sleep. The sun blushes, dressed in tufts of powdered sugar, but the soul is stirring, and the breathing is deep.