Zenith's Rest

The sun has climbed the ivory stair, To sit enthroned in breathless air. No longer soft, the morning’s grace Has vanished in a white-hot space, Where shadows shrink and hide their heads Beneath the roots and garden beds. The world is held in amber light, A pause between the dew and night. The golden fields forget to sway, As silence claims the middle day; Even the wind has gone to sleep, In hollows where the heat is deep. A heavy peace begins to bloom, In every quiet, sun-drenched room. The dust motes dance in single lines, While through the glass the daylight shines, Reminding us to slow our pace, And find the stillness in this space.