Precious Opara
Oct 14, 2025 23:34p.m.
<p>It reminds me of waking up—</p><p>first thing in the morning,</p><p>when the air is soft</p><p>and the world has not yet spoken.</p><p>Silence hangs like a blanket,</p><p>gentle, familiar, whole.</p><p><br></p><p style="text-align: left;">I have not said a word,</p><p>not even to myself.</p><p>The sky is pale,</p><p>the kind of blue that barely breathes,</p><p>and the wind drifts lazily</p><p>through half-open curtains.</p><p><br></p><p>Outside my window,</p><p>everything is still.</p><p>The trees stand like quiet watchers,</p><p>the ground glistens with dew,</p><p>and the earth hums faintly—</p><p>as though it too is waking.</p><p><br></p>
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