To brush the frost from every sleeping pane.
The frantic world has laid its worries by,
And silence settles like a gentle rain.
No heavy gears or restless engines hum,
To break the grace this quiet morning brings.
The bells of steeple towers now become
The only voice that through the valley rings.
We gather breath for all the days ahead,
A slow-brewed cup, a page of ancient rhyme.
By soft and steady light, our souls are fed,
Within this small and sacred notch of time.
Before the morrow calls us to the fray,
We rest within the mercy of the day.
A second bell begins its rhythmic toll,
To call the dreamer from their warm retreat.
A stillness settles deep within the soul,
While shadows stretch across the empty street.
The kettle sings a low and silver note,
The steam a ghost that dances in the air;
The hurried words that once were in the throat
Are softened now into a silent prayer.
The week’s long burden falls upon the floor,
As sunlight carves a path across the wood.
We do not crave the chase for any more,
But find the simple, present moment good.
Let Monday wait behind its heavy gate,
While here, amidst the peace, we celebrate.
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