A Quiet Rhyme

The morning light,

a soft, low gleam,

within this sight,

a waking dream.

The coffee sits,

a speckled blue,

the world admits

a view that’s new.

When we slow, the words declare,

the place we go

is everywhere.

Rooney’s voice,

so sharp and keen,

makes a simple choice,

to step between

the rush and strain,

the endless chase.

She says again:

“Life is just time

and how you spend it.”

The garden's grace,

it turns the key,

it finds its place

inside of me.

My tired mind

begins to mend,

a truth I find

upon the end

of one fast day.

I sip and breathe.

I start to pray:

This piece will weave.