Quiet Morning
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Before the house decides what it is doing,
before the phone begins its urgent call,
there is a window of the wholly quiet—
the peace before the day takes all.
I try to live inside that window—
ten minutes with the birds and the pale light,
the breath that asks for nothing in return,
the quiet that undoes the worried night.
This is what peace feels like in practice:
not the absence of the complicated,
but the space before it arrives at the door—
the morning, unannounced and unmoderated.
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Before the house decides what it is doing,
before the phone begins its urgent call,
there is a window of the wholly quiet—
the peace before the day takes all.
I try to live inside that window—
ten minutes with the birds and the pale light,
the breath that asks for nothing in return,
the quiet that undoes the worried night.
This is what peace feels like in practice:
not the absence of the complicated,
but the space before it arrives at the door—
the morning, unannounced and unmoderated.
