Poetry & Prose • journal entry • a short reflection

Quiet Pieces

There is a bowl

.. on a shelf 

.. by the window

nothing remarkable about it.

.. clay .. glaze ..

A small imperfection near the rim.

Yet every morning

the light finds it.

And every morning

it reminds me of a season of becoming.

There is a basket

woven from patient hands.

Its fibres curve and wander

without apology.

It holds nothing.

Yet somehow it holds stories.

The house is full of quiet pieces.

A stone collected on a walk.

A book opened a hundred times.

A photograph fading at the edges.

Objects that sit gently in a space,

carrying traces of who we were,

who we loved,

and who we are becoming.

Perhaps that is why we surround ourselves with beautiful things.

Not because we need more possessions.

But because certain objects become companions.

Witnesses.

Keepers of memory.

Quiet pieces .. for a quiet life.