Image: crescent moon resting above the last light of day.
Morning no longer arrives
with traffic in its teeth.
It comes softly now,
through curtains,
through the slow mouth of the kettle,
through a silence
that does not ask me
to prove myself before coffee.
My desk waits
like a patient thing.
The laptop opens.
The house exhales.
Somewhere between the first email
and the second cup of tea,
I remember
that labour can wear slippers,
that thought can bloom
without fluorescent light.
By noon
the walls have heard everything.
The small sigh before a meeting.
The brave voice on a call.
The laughter meant for no one.
The spoon against the mug,
that tiny domestic bell
marking another hour gone.
Outside,
the world continues
in harder shoes.
And I,
moon eyed by evening,
close the screen
and give thanks
for this brief, borrowed gentleness.
This is what I wanted.
Work
without the wound of the road.
This is what I fear.
That I may grow too used
to the sound of silence.
So night comes in slowly,
laying its silver curve
above the roofline,
and I sit with the quiet truth:
home can hold work,
yes…
…but only if one is lucky enough
to be gathered by both!