Notes About The Poem
True beauty and urgency of human existence lie precisely in its brief, fleeting nature—a temporary spark illuminating the dark.
Quiet Thief
The pendulum swings in a sunlit room,
where dust motes drift in the quiet glow,
we rarely notice the creeping gloom
or feel how fast the hours go.
We trace our names on frosted glass
and count on mornings still to come,
watching the silent shadows pass
to the steady beat of an unseen drum.
The porch light blinks on a summer night,
laughter spilling through the open door,
a childhood caught in that yellow light
we thought would last forevermore.
We mark our years by worn-out shoes,
by pencil lines on the kitchen frame,
with so much to learn and nothing to lose
before the years become a memory's name.
Then autumn arrives with a quiet chill,
leaving rust on the edge of the maple leaf;
the house grows still upon the hill,
and time steps in like a gentle thief.
The coffee turns cold as the clock ticks on,
the morning paper sits untouched and gray,
and the vivid colors of youth are gone,
softly fading into yesterday.
We hold the keys to a forgotten door,
listening for voices we used to know,
scattered like light on the wooden floor
from seasons that ended long ago.
Yet in every tick, a beauty stays—
a quiet warmth in the deepening dark,
for the gift of life is its fleeting days,
a brief, sweet light, a glowing spark.
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