In the study, quiet with dust,
the
lamp’s small sun spills gold
over
the tired oak desk.
Outside, trees begin to undress,
each
leaf a farewell
dissolving
like breath.
The
large globe sits
in
mahogany crosshairs,
oceans smudged with blue,
continents
yellowed by years.
I turn it gently, a god exhibiting latitude.
We
are always traveling, even here.
The
faded rug recites its history
in threads of rust, plum, and smoke.
The season shifts—a whisper of wind,
a
scattering of seminal seed
for
a time that is only prophecy in October.
Books
stand quiet like lines of school children
unable to move through afternoon’s honey.
Even shadows seem contemplative,
long fingers reaching for something lost.
A
sparrow pecks the pane and vanishes,
a
reminder that morning has passed,
that
light and dark are trading places.
At peace, I close the book I wasn’t reading,
letting the moment rest in my hands.
Evening
sweeps through the room
as the world turns, unhurried and unseen.
~William Hammett
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