Morning mist breathes slow-
a quiet room listens
to the echo of light.
The window waits
with patient glass,
holding a sky that has forgotten voices.
Three sparrows pass,
their wings like brief thoughts
brushing the silence.
Tea cools beside the page.
Steam fades upward-
a ghost of warmth leaving.
In the garden
one fallen leaf turns slowly,
learning the language of stillness.
No footsteps arrive.
Even the clock
ticks more gently here.
Yet in this hush
something soft awakens-
a hidden pulse beneath the quiet.
Loneliness once stood here
like an empty chair,
staring across the table.
But solitude
is different.
It is the long breath
between two waves of the sea,
a space where the heart remembers itself.
Wind moves through bamboo-
not to break the silence,
but to shape it.
And I remain,
not lost in the quiet,
but held by it.
No Responses