To wake up early without any reason and to meet the sun without having arranged a rendezvous. To sit on the terrace, wrapped in the old orange shawl, bought many summers ago for more winters to come on a market close to Florence. To count the birds, than getting confused and to start again. To tell the cat my dreams and the cat is patient with me. The brown, old dog passes us a visit and the cat is very patient with him too. The neighbor chops wood and the town and the city as well as the lowlands and the lights behind seem to be very far away, disappearing beyond my neighbors strong back. To invite the children of the neighbors from the left-side to cake and hot chocolate because cake and hot chocolate before eight in the morning does no harm at all, to make coffee with the old coffee maker that my mother used even if I am the last person on earth who drinks filter-coffee, to walk bare feet along the kitchen and stop in the middle of the living room, exactly where the sun meets my feet, to listen to an old record while the scent of the lilies of the valley floats through the door, to open a book for a moment without reading and before setting the table for the guests on their way, to stand for a long moment in the door to look at the spring, who walks slowly upon the street under his arms a big brown bag full of tulips and daffodils, hidden under his coat, you might see the lilac and the strawberries growing red under this arms, he smiles shyly and somewhere the old gods start to sing of gardens near or far just as you want them to be.