We are made of stardust, contemplating stardust, wondering about the stardust yet to be.

The world holds its breath, a hushed pause.
No wind stirs the leaf, nor distant cause.
A deep, soft quietness, settling low,
Where hurried thoughts no longer flow.
Time's pulse grown so faint, a fragile thread,
As inner landscapes brightly spread.
Here, simple being finds its grace,
And fills the vast, unmoving space.

The Spoon

Not just metal,
curved and plain,
but a tiny chalice of intent.

It knows the first sweet taste of morning,
the comforting warmth of a night's last bite.
Each stirring,
each lift from bowl to lip,
imprints upon its surface
a whisper of sustenance,
a memory of hunger sated.

It carries not just food,
but the silent promise of nourishment,
the humble magic of satisfaction
delivered,
one small, silvered scoop at a time.

Shadow is not merely the absence of light, but the profound evidence of its presence, giving form and depth to all it touches.

The moon, a disc,
It shifts its light.
A sliver thin,
Across the night.

It grows to half,
A curving grace.
Then full it shines,
In empty space.

Then back it fades,
A shadow's sweep.
Its silent phase,
The heavens keep.