perhaps I am an all or nothing poet only in the morning
when silence is not irreversible
I wash my face with the water of memory
I wipe it with the fragile fabric of the future
first thing in the morning, why not
then I notice how the orchids wear their flowers, the windows are in bloom
I listen to the birds, they carry the possibility of smile
without warning I remember the tempo of your steps
loyal to the morning tea, to the not- yet-formed thoughts, to all
the poems I never wrote but felt
I find solace as I watch
how the silence of snow is forgetting its roots
Feb 4
Feb 4, 2026 at 3:00 PM UTC
perhaps I am an all or nothing poet only in the morning
when silence is not irreversible
I wash my face with the water of memory
I wipe it with the fragile fabric of the future
first thing in the morning, why not
then I notice how the orchids wear their flowers, the windows are in bloom
I listen to the birds, they carry the possibility of smile
without warning I remember the tempo of your steps
loyal to the morning tea, to the not- yet-formed thoughts, to all
the poems I never wrote but felt
I find solace as I watch
how the silence of snow is forgetting its roots
