alone in the house

A thin curtain blows across the bed.

The wind moves it gently.

Then it lands in place against the headboard.

A minute of stillness.

This is love.

This sense of home. 

It fills you with belonging .

Knowing where you are.

That you are here in this moment. 

And you can see the little bird lighting on the deck.

Just being a bird and that being; being enough.

And the house is quiet.

There is a single cup of coffee

for you on the table.

A book by the bedside

that you can take to your favourite chair.

The phone is on silent.

You are on silent.

You are basking in the stillness of it all.

A guilty pleasure of having the house

all to yourself on a Saturday morning.

Slow. Time. Passing.

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