A dark, quiet hour. Not
even birds have woken up.
Yet. The family room is
a receptacle for holding
stillness.
By the edge of the window
where the recliner sits,
silhouettes of the familiar,
the remembered, tease
memory. This is a hush
unlike any other. Too much
of this life is given to uncovering.
To witnessing and absorbing.
The day opens itself to excessive
viewing, a compulsive movie
that refuses to pause.
But there’s this liminal hour,
this ephemeral film
of dark-quiet. It drifts in
like a kindly alchemist
and stirs up a curious
chemistry of dissolution.
This space between dawn
and light is not for finding,
it's for forgetting. Shapes.
Sounds. Even oneself
and the snotty baggage
that entity comes with.
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