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The morning comes without a single bell
The warm floor greets me and I know it well
A kettle sings from the kitchen's rusted side
The tea leaves settle when the water slides down
Two chipped porcelain mugs wait on the marble slab
A spoon still holds the trace of what we had
The bread we bought is cooling on the tray
You cracked two eggs and kept the shells that way
Outside the window only hilltops move
No one is counting what we have to prove
We let the day begin without a name
This quiet gentle calm is our only claim
What I own can't be counted, it sits between the walls
And the tap that drips a rhythm till the midnight falls
But we never need to announce a claim
And the silence already knows our name
The kettle turns hot
The steam rises out of the pot
And we don't need to make a scene
The warmth inside is all I've seen
The table is clean
And the quiet between us is always green
The shelf has room for both of our hands
And everything else there is soft as sand
No great crowd
At noon the dust floats all through the room
The potted fern unrolls its newest bloom
The old clock on the wall has lost its hand
But we wake up early by our own demand
The window is open and the curtain plays
A bicycle bell rings through the back lane maze
We don't lock up the jars or hide the bread in a case
We keep the kitchen door open to the open space
The neighbors all pass by and they wave their hands
No one expects a greeting from our lands
But when the day folds, they all know our address
And the quietness keeps us in its soft press
The old table holds the bread and the shelf keeps all the seeds
The roof leaks in a pattern that only the floor reads
We don't ever need to make it loud
Our quiet possession is a gentle cloud
The kettle turns hot
The steam rises out of the pot
We don't need a sign to know it's real
The taste is enough; the rest can heal
The bread on the board
Is more than any treasure ever stored
The chipped mugs hold all that we treasure
And no one can ever measure our measure
We just sit
