To Be My Quiet

If we never chant stillness away,
know that I am wrapped in remembrance
like an aged sweater, full of holes,
yet still worn proudly.

I don’t push this into shadows anymore.
It visits me like weather—
a fog at the edge of morning,
a light on the bloom of my cheek.

I still sing to you at times.
Not out loud,
just in the way I notice beauty
and feel yours there beside it.
In the lull before a song begins.
In the hush of dusk settling over the day.

I've felt you heartily.
Not just in the time we were known,
but in all the time since—
in the grace it’s taken to free your hand
without turning my heart to stone.

If the shrike stays mute,
you are still part of my quiet.
Still woven into the silence
I’ve come to understand
as its own kind of love.

Not all closeness is held in arms.
Some lives in the roots,
in the weeping mercy,
in the soft way I carry you now—
without need,
without question,
without regret.