Morning found the windowsill already in a queue. The poinsettias had laid out tiny festive collars for their bracts, as if a haberdasher had arrived before the kettle and asked the green leaves to wait their turn.
We asked at the kiosk by the corner bakery. "Neighbors said the plants were dressing for winter tea," a woman with a wool hat told us. "It was only manners. You greet the curtain, you nod to the kettle, and nobody hurries the next row of red."
The gardener pinned a note to the flowerpot: guests may blush one tier at a time, and the neighboring collar is not in a hurry. By dusk the lowest row wore a careful crimson, the curtain had been thanked twice, and the kettle gave the sill a nod that meant closing time.
A day later a bee came back to check the collars. It sat through one whole turn of the morning light, then left looking as if the windowsill had invited it to stay for tea.