Loath

Loath to rise when dawn pulls the curtains back,
I linger in the quilt’s soft, muted grey,
Each breath a hesitant sigh, a quiet crack
Between the world’s loud call and my own sway.

The kettle hums a low, reluctant tune,
Its steam a timid veil against the pane;
I taste the bitter dregs of yesterday’s June,
And wonder if the day will break the chain.

Footsteps echo down the hall—soft, unsure—
Like distant drums that beat a wary march;
I pull the blanket tighter, feeling pure
The weight of choice, the gentle, loathful arch.

Yet slowly, like a shy unfurling fern,
A spark of curiosity does gleam—
A whispered promise that, if I will turn,
Even reluctance can become a dream.

So I arise, though loath, with eyes half‑closed,
And step into the light that dares to call,
Finding that even unwilling hearts compose
A quiet strength when they begin to fall.