Quiet places.


for the giant bookstore at the corner of church
where I am content to listen
to other people’s morning french lessons
from my green velvet armchair
and survey the awakening city from behind the windows
that lock away grey january dread

for my favorite café just off the fullerton stop
where chai tea lattes are sipped in blissful anonymity
and sandwiches are named after great literature
while pops plays the trumpet over the radio
and i have nothing to do and nowhere to be
and everything is delicious and slow

for my little chateau bedroom
and too many pillows and the gauzy canopy
that renders everything beyond my bed
a little more soft-edged and hazy-white, where
a hundred paper-and-ink adventures, sermons, great loves
sit on a shelf across the wooden floor
and even more spill out of my pen onto blank pages

for spaces where silence beckons light instead of darkness,
where i can experience the rare glory of a quiet mind,
where i am okay to be alone with myself
and i can feel Abba holding me close in the stillness,
whispering, “listen,”

today i am thankful for these quiet, inside places
because this morning someone reminded me
that it is good to take care
of your own soul


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