The Golden Quiet

When morning breaks with silken tread,

And rouses dreams from death-like bed,

A hush descends, so warm, so wide—

A breath of grace the dark can’t hide.

The sun, like lover ghost returned,

Kisses all the shade it burned.

Its fingers—pale, though tipped in fire—

Caress the eaves with hush’d desire,

And through the lattice, fine and fair,

It weaves its light in golden prayer.

Upon the floor where shadows lay,

It sketches runes of brighter day.

No clarion call, no thunder’s boast—

Just warmth that stirs the sleeping host:

The ivy climbs with trembling cheer,

The dust motes dance like souls drawn near,

And even stone—cold, solemn, old—

Begins to dream of days in gold.

The birds, in hush, begin their hymn—

A psalm to pierce the morning dim—

And all the graves, though still and deep,

Feel sunlight brush what once could weep.

O, gentle balm! O, sacred thief!

You steal from night its cloak of grief.

For every pane that once knew rain,

Now gleams with whispers soft, arcane—

A promise inked in aureate hue,

That all that’s dark will fade to blue.

And in that touch—so faint, so fleet—

There lies a truth both warm and sweet:

That sorrow’s veil, though rich with gloom,

Can’t long resist the sunbeam’s bloom.

That even tombs in shadows dressed

May know a moment’s soft caress.

And hearts that break in silence grim

May feel the light redeeming them.

So rise, dear soul, though dusk may cling—

For light, like love, is patient thing.

It will not shout, nor will it press,

But waits to soothe with gentleness.

It comes not loud—but comes to stay,

Like sunlight touching stone… then clay.