The Glided Hush
The sun is a ghost on the edge of the floor, A golden invitation at the foot of the door. The shadows are long and the ceiling is dim, As the tea starts to swirl near the porcelain rim. Maybe it’s magic, this spiraling lace , Of steam that rises to soften the space. Or perhaps it’s the way that the light hits the wall, Making the worries of Monday feel small. The world is a whisper, a million miles gone, In the quietest stretch before Monday’s new dawn. Just a mug in your palms and a treat on the plate, A slow-motion dance while the calendars wait. No rush in the pulse, no noise in the air, Just a velvet-soft Sunday and time left to spare. So let the tea steep and the amber light glow, In the sweetest surrender of living life slow .