The writing in this collection is born out of ritual: the grinding of coffee beans and the gathering of words, day after day, word after word. A poem to mark each day of the year. The poems come from a quiet place-think campfire rather than wildfire, think fairy dust rather than fireworks. They arise from what beloved Kingston poet Bronwen Wallace called the stubborn particulars of grace: the stain on the sidewalk, the laundry on the line, the torn screen on the front porch door, March giving way to April. Some days just noticing.