Another Road
This morning the light arrived by another road,
carrying a warmth I could not explain.
The windows held their silence,
while the world continued measuring its distances.
A cushion, a hand, the soft disorder of morning,
small things, almost nothing, beyond a bit,
yet the hour seemed to lean closer.
No promise was spoken.
No book was stored away.
Still, something crossed the quiet unseen,
like breath passing over the warm skin of an arm.
When the light changed, nothing had moved,
and yet the day was no longer empty.
