Poetry

Paint

Upon the easel, blank and white, A brush in hand, the artist takes flight— Swaths of cerulean, vermilion, gold, Spread across the waiting canvas bold. Each stroke a whisper, each hue a

Scent

A whisper lingers on the breeze, A subtle hint of rosemary, It drifts through gardens, past the trees, Awakening the quiet reverie. The scent of rain on cobblestones, Petrichor, a damp perfume, It weaves

Terse

Terse In quiet rooms where words are few, Each syllable a measured thread, A whisper cuts the lingering hue Like morning frost on garden shed. A terse remark — sharp, clean, precise — Falls like a

Organ

In the vaulted hush of stone‑clad nave, A pipe‑organ sighs, its breath of bronze and pine, Each stop a whisper, each rank a wave Of sound that lifts the soul toward the divine.

Basin

In the quiet bathroom, the porcelain basin gleams, A still pool catching morning's soft light, Ripples dance where the tap's gentle stream, Reflects the sky beyond the frosted pane. Each drop a

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