The sky rinses itself in early light,
a pale hush folding over tired roofs and trees.
Dust on my window begins to glow,
each grain a tiny sun I almost didn’t see.
Wind turns the neem leaves, page after page,
reading the morning aloud in a green, slow tongue.
Far off, a crow cracks open the silence,
drops its rough note into the still blue lung.
Clouds drift like thoughts I haven’t written yet,
soft, unfinished, gathering at the edge of mind.
The road is wet with yesterday’s brief storm,
footsteps print verses that the heat will soon unwind.
Somewhere a dog shakes rain from its coat,
diamonds scattering back to the thirsty ground.
The world smells of mud and second chances,
of small roots learning the courage of sound.
I stand in this quiet, breathing with the day,
heart keeping time with a passing train.
If life is a book the weather keeps revising,
today is a margin where hope writes my name again.
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Author:
DJ (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: December 2nd, 2025 00:13
- Comment from author about the poem: A brief resident of many skies, I write to catch the small moments most people walk past. My poems wander through nature, memory, and quiet city corners, stitching broken rhymes into images of hope. Each piece is a page from my own life, shared in the hope that someone, somewhere, feels a little less alone while reading.
- Category: Nature
- Views: 10
- Users favorite of this poem: Jainesh.D, Priya Tomar
Offline)
Comments3
This poem paints in vivid images sceneries of beauty that lift the soul. A wonderful write in that diary of margin notes. Loved it
Thank for your golden words
You are most welcome
Lovely write!
Thank for your visit
Fantastic
Thank you sir
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