⭐ THE UNPOLISHED SEASON — Poem IV
The spoon gave up first.
Not the coffee,
not the light,
not even the fridge
with its night‑shift sighs –
the spoon.
It lay in the mug
like a cold, silver protest,
refusing to stir anything
that even resembled effort.
I nudged it.
It didn’t move.
I nudged it again.
It responded with the quiet authority
of someone who has already drafted
their resignation letter.
Apparently,
it was tired of being the only thing
expected to stay polished
in a kitchen full of quitters.
The coffee had abandoned
its rescue business yesterday.
The light still squinted
like it hadn’t slept.
The silence –
the same one that’s been gathering
its own dust and hair since last night –
sat between us,
unhelpful as ever.
And I –
well, I wasn’t exactly
a motivational poster either.
So the spoon decided
it was done performing.
Done swirling hope into mornings.
Done pretending to be helpful.
It leaned against the mug’s rim,
trembling slightly –
not from effort,
but from the relief
of finally choosing itself.
And honestly,
I couldn’t blame it.
Some days,
even the silverware
has better boundaries
than I do.