Books stacked to the ceiling; new, old, hard cover, all colors, smelling of cinnamon, cloves, and musty spider dust. A woman whirling like a cyclone, her arms extending. She brushes the walls, her eyes shut. She chooses. The overstuffed couch swallows her and she reads. Sips of hot tea, cold tea, cider, coffee, one after another, the light changing through the day from powdery gray to melancholy green, at noon quite bright yellow and then white. Straining, she escapes into history, imbibing the past. Seeking perspective, finding a foundation to understand the moment. Respite. She girds to return to earth.