A Poet's Ease
He sits where the quiet gathers
A desk
A lamp
A page waiting
He begins the slow stitching
Of hours that once breathed
Each memory arrives differently
Some walk in with dusty shoes
Some drift like a familiar scent
From a room he no longer enters
He writes them as they are
Not as they should be
Cracked edges
Weathered colors
The well-seasoned truth carrying its weight
With the soft scrape of his pen
He learns this small mercy
Remembering is not returning
It is simply letting the past speak
Without interruption
When he closes his notebook
The world feels lighter
Not because he has changed it
Because he finally let it become whole
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