The Bench

How the day bends itself to joy,
like trees leaning toward light.
Here, silence hums—
a presence, not an absence.

The air holds a simple truth:
that love is quiet,
that a heart can rest
when it knows it is surrounded.

Here is the world,
its breath threading
through fur, through laughter,
through eyes that see and do not ask.

The earth beneath holds no grudges,
the sun carries no demands.
The moment—
is enough.

And what else could you want,
sitting still in the company
of those who know
what it means to belong?

To them, you are everything.
And here, you are whole.

These are the mathematics of joy—
three pairs of eyes,
watching nothing in particular,
thus everything.

This is what the soul looks like
when it finds its pack—
content as fallen leaves,
complete as autumn light.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​