The Good Kind of Quiet

The morning wakes in sugar-softened light,
The kind that makes the whole world feel just right.
No clocks complain, no engines chase the day,
Just windows glowing pale in gentle gray.

The coffee blooms like comfort in a cup,
Its steam curls slow, refusing to grow up.
A radio hums low, content and mild,
As snow redraws the yard, both neat and wild.

The floor is cold, but laughter warms it fast,
From socked-up feet that skid and never last.
Voices collide, then settle into tone,
A morning finding rhythm of its own.

The tree stands patient, dressed without a plan,
Each ornament recalling where it ran
Through years and hands and many kinds of care,
Still finding space to shine exactly there.

A ribbon twists, a bow settles neat,
Perfection gladly yielding to the sweet.
The lights blink wrong, then find their shared refrain,
Like wayward stars that choose to shine the same.

The oven ticks, a promise nearly done,
Its steady warmth an echo of the sun.
The scent alone forgives the waiting time,
As patience learns to feel a lot like prime.

Outside, the street forgets its usual race,
Cars drifting slow, as if they know the place
Deserves a softer step, a gentler sound,
A truce the world agreed on, just this round.

A neighbor waves with mittened, clumsy cheer,
No reason needed — just a gesture here.
The street moves on, unchanged in look or sound,
But something lighter settles all around.

The good kind of quiet fills the room with grace,
Not empty air, but warmth that knows its place.
A pause that lets the heart remember true
Why Christmas comes — and gently stays with you.

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