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The grammar of Stillness
January 5, 2026
Drops of rain on the windowsill
The smell of coffee, like a hooked pill.
Once again, I am lost
in lyrics, chapters,
books, or maybe just lost
in the serene wild
of memories.
All I smell is petrichor,
all I dreamed of, a dime a dozen
in my safe zone.
I’ve never been judged,
never been torn.
I’m a shrinking violet,
a church bell, or just an eunoia
whispered through the quiet shell.
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it reflects the bound between nature and human.