Dryly

Dryly

In a quiet corner of the kitchen,
the toast sits, its crust a brittle sigh,
butter long since melted, leaving
only a faint, dryly whispered scent of wheat.

He smiles dryly, a twist of lip,
as the rain taps the windowpane—
a theatre of clouds performing
a muted overture, no crescendo, just hush.

The tea, steeped too long, offers
a dryly bitter note,
yet the steam curls upward,
a shy applause for the quiet moment.

Outside, the lawn lies parched,
grass a pale, straw‑coloured jest,
while the sparrows, undeterred,
chat in dryly amused chirps.

And so the day unfolds,
each gesture understated,
each laugh a dryly delivered punchline,
humour found in the arid, the understated, the true.