The Room is Alive when I Rest

What’s wrong with a cup of tea

and soft music, heavy with violin

and melancholy?

Wasn’t this song born, anyway,

to be the centerpiece to musing,

to folded up legs and curled thoughts?

Now that I think of it,

the books, and the potted plant

they are learning their backs against, 

are, too, asking for someone

whose contentedness deepens time

just enough

so that their timeless spirits 

can slip into the world of living

to be experienced along with

the other beating hearts and 

breathing bodies hoping

not just to be seen, or consumed,

but to be indulged in.