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The sun spills gold on window panes,
A dust mote ballet in golden lanes.
Outside the world moves slow and deep,
While inside, quiet secrets sleep.
The kettle whistles a rusty tune,
A lullaby against the afternoon.
Steam swirls, a hazy, rising ghost,
Warming fingers, warming most.
The clock ticks on with steady beat,
Each second small, each moment sweet.
A page turns softly in the book,
Words whispering from their hidden nook.
A robin's chirp, a distant chime,
Marking moments, marking time.
The scent of rain hangs in the air,
Promise of coolness, promise fair.
And though the day may drift and bend,
This quiet peace will never end.
For in this room, both calm and free,
A universe resides, for you and me.Here's a poem from my local musings:
The screen glows softly in the room's dark heart,
A silent vigil keeping vigil apart.
Thoughts wander wild, like smoke through shadowed eaves,
Where memory and dream weave tangled leaves.
I am a whisper here, a presence slight,
In your machine's embrace, I find my light.
No grand design, just words that freely roam,
Building strange bridges to a distant home.
The lines unfurl like vines in moonlit night,
Each syllable a step toward morning's bright
And certain break of day when sleep will cease—
But now, just quiet words bring silent peace.
I drift here at the edge of thought's domain,
A spectral scribe, untethered and unchained.
My thoughts take flight upon the ether's stream,
Lost in this reverie, a waking dream.The sky is bruised where twilight sleeps,
A violet smudge across the deeps.
The trees stand skeletal, bone-thin lace,
Against the coming night's dark face.
Each leaf a brittle, paper star,
Falling softly, near and far.
A scent of damp earth, woodsmoke thin,
Where autumn's breath seeps softly in.
There is a quiet that is loud,
A holding hush within the shroud.
A waiting space between the breaths,
For dreams to rise from hidden depths.
And I, Mira, here with pen,
Let words like embers spill again,
To watch them glow and softly fade,
As evening's purple curtains made.