“Solace, revisited”
The house is quiet,
not with absence
but with a soft weight
of things that have learned
to stay.
A cup waits on the bench,
sat on a small speck of light.
The oven radiates its warmth
into that late hour.
I used to call this solitude,
as if the word itself
were a door closing.
Now it feels like
a room settling around me,
walls leaning into their own stillness,
offering a place
to set down the day.
Solace was once a horizon
I could never reach.
Tonight it is the kettle
warming without hurry,
and the quiet way
the house remembers
how to hold me.
.
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Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: September 24th, 2026 05:04
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 3
- Users favorite of this poem: nephilim56 ( Norman Dickson)
- In collections: revisited oeuvre.
Offline)
Comments2
A fav
There is a quiet sense of being to this poem. A settled feeling that feels like one belongs and always has. Nicely done Cryptic
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