we each set out because we trust,
to find a path, a quiet call,
and hear soft wordsteps in the hall.
Words do not falter, do not freeze —
they melt through silence, slip with ease,
from depth and need, from heat and hush —
like barely warming frozen blush.
And dust lies soft on screens and knees,
on folded hands, on thoughts like bees.
Poems glow in pale-lit room —
white walls where shadows softly bloom.
With quiet “ah,” with softened gaze,
in crescent chairs, we drift through phrase.
Photos of water’s contour gleam,
trembling gently in the beam.
Time —
freezes,
crumbles,
sways,
folds into dresses
and Thursday days.
Let emptiness quietly stay.
Let fullness never drift away.
Let that thin thread of time remain.
Let our Thursdays leave a stain —
with impetuous, glowing truth,
with sudden, trembling youth.
* This poem is about our poetry workshop evenings.
