Embers - soft, living things.

A simple poem on the tenderness of the early hours before morning. An ode to our softness, our quiet ways of showing up in our gentleness - and lighting up the little corners of our forgotten worlds.

As you drift into the solitary world of dreams,
I hear from your lips, a mumbling - a murmur, so sweet,
it speaks its way into the tender morning,
a realm of softness, between sleep

the gentleness of pillows,
sculpted when holding,
our heavy heads as the weightless meadows
of our dreams etch pathways, mumbling like ember,

like footprints -
a blaze of light in each indistinct word,
mutters dip - into worldly things
when the night is unbearably still..

The sky - in our absence, 
might’ve extinguished
the delicate dance of the stars,
our delicate imperative; living things, 

mumbling and yawning,
finding our way back to one another.
Soft pillows still molded 
from holding us - holding each other,

in the corner of a weary bed,
in a corner of a forgotten world,
suspended - in sleep,
we dispense; softness

yawns,
murmurs
to keep things going -
to welcome in

the lightness
tomorrow morning 
etches to bring
to us; embers; soft, living things.

(Above is a painting I love by Odilon Redon, titled Apparition - which I felt would pair quite well with this piece)