The last roses are flowering in the garden, and on my windowsill.
I took a pile of books out side and browsed through them in the soft autumn sun.
This evening I baked quinces in honey and a loaf of bread. The house smells delicious.
Bread and roses bring to mind St Elizabeth of Hungary, her basket of bread changed miraculously to roses, and the mill workers of Lowell, Massachusetts in 1912, striking for bread and for roses too.