Today, a small reprieve from parenting—
though that word never quite fits.
You are always a parent,
even in absence, even in silence,
even when distance stretches into something permanent.
That thread does not break.
It only softens, hums quietly beneath everything.
Still, you learn to lean away, sometimes—
to step, gently, into yourself again.
Into creation. Into breath.
Tonight, I lean into poetry.
I love the licking flames,
their crackle—like lips smacking in hunger,
the wood burning bright with eager heat.
I love the cat, settled on my lap,
mottled, soft, coiled in quiet listening
to the language of fire.
I love the room—four walls and an antechamber,
lanterns of colored glass, a Turkish rug,
two guitars resting, three chairs waiting, a simple jug.
I love the warmth, loosening muscle from bone,
pulling cold from its stubborn corners,
drawing silence out of stillness.
I love the man, bent over his phone,
Wordling, absent and present at once,
feeding the fire with instinctive hands,
reading Sam Neill in between.
I love the night garden beyond—
touched here and there with yellow light,
a leaf, a stubborn bloom, something watching back.
I love the cushions, spread wall to wall,
an open invitation to fall,
to stretch out fully, to finally stop.
And I love the children on the walls—
forever smiling…