Cartography of Quiet

I.

I trace the outline of my mornings

on the fogged windowpane,

fingerpaths that never reach the glass

but remember the shape of light.

Coffee steams in muted spirals;

a single chair leans into shadow.

Outside, leaves argue with wind,

and I take notes in the language of absence.

II.

There is a closet in me

where unspoken words hang on velvet hangers.

I open it to dust:

a folded map of roads I never drove,

a scarf I forgot to return,

a photograph that blinks with its own pulse.

The body keeps minutes

no calendar understands.

III.

I plant small trees in quiet corners:

a lavender on the windowsill,

a mint sprouting between books,

a hope buried in the folds of a sweater.

Each leaf whispers

that survival is made of tiny gestures,

that devotion is measured

in patience and repetition.

IV.

I let the kettle sing its cartography.

Steam rises like a translucent compass,

pointing to rooms I have yet to enter,

to selves I have yet to inhabit.

The past folds neatly into origami,

its sharp edges softened by memory.

V.

If I could collect aliveness,

I would jar it like sunlight

between the ribs,

preserve it for winter nights

when shadows stretch long

and my hands remember nothing

but the warmth of small, ordinary things.

VI.

At dusk, I place a chair by the window,

sit with the quiet orchard inside me,

watch the light fold into itself.

I am present,

and that is enough geography for today.