Poetry

Taper

A quiet wick, a slender thread, Where wax and wick together tread, It tapers—softly, gently drawn— A flame that sighs before the dawn. In candlelight the taper bends, A silken sigh that night

Probe

A whisper of steel in the silent void, A probe of night, where stars are employed. It drifts beyond the amber glow of home, Seeking the secrets that the cosmos comb. From

Usual

The usual sunrise slips through the blinds, A soft gold spill on the kitchen floor, The kettle sighs its familiar tune, Steam curling like a quiet thought. I pull on my well‑worn

Naive

Naive hearts beat soft in morning light, Trusting the world with a gentle sigh, They see the sky as a promise bright, And miss the shadows that wander by. In cobblestone lanes

Knock

At the quiet hour when night leans low, A soft tap—knock—breaks the hush of snow. A hand unseen upon the oak, Three gentle beats, a whispered spoke. It may be friend with

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