When the Quiet Comes

The day has been a rush of noise,

a clutter of footsteps, voices knocking against one another,

the kind of hours that fray at the edges.

But now the air stills in a way I can feel on my skin,

like someone smoothing a hand over a wrinkled sheet.

The word exhales.

And something inside me answers.

.

This is the moment the quiet finds me,

I murmur, half-afraid it won't stay.

.

Lights shift first.

Not brighter, not dimmer,

just softer, as if the sky has been washed clean

and set back gently in place.

Shadows stretch with slow intention,

unhurried, unafraid,

turning everything they touch into a kind of truth.

Even my thoughts move differently,

not churning now, but drifting

in long, careful lines.

.

A distant sound falters and fades,

and in that pause I hear the shape of myself

a little clearer.

No clamoring.

No pressure.

Just a steady hum of being,

like water settling in a glass.

.

This is the moment the quiet finds me,

I say again, testing the words

the way you test a door you hope is unlocked.

.

And it is.

In the stillness that spreads through the fields,

in the hush resting on the roof tiles,

in the way my own breath feels

both lighter and more certain.

.

I stand there, letting the calm rise through me

inch by inch,

not rushing it, not questioning it,

only receiving.

.

This is the moment the quiet finds me,

and I step gently into its hands.