Contemplating the Stillness of a Place

Contemplating on the stillness of a place, when it’s quiet and no one’s around.

The tap is dripping, the trains are clacking along the rail tracks, tea is silently brewing with fresh plumes of steam rising up in a slow cascade of waves.

Raindrops remain speckled across the window, as the bed sheets lie pulled back in disarray.

Despite the dripping tap, rumbling trains and tip-taps of raindrops, the atmosphere is quiet, unmoving.

In this pocket of time the world within one’s room is vacant of life, except for the telltale signs that someone was there mere moments ago.

But they left, and took the light with them.

So now, what is this place without their human?

The tea will continue to brew and then reach a stage where the steam ceases its upward dance.

What is its purpose if not to be drank, and to be appreciated for its subtle, sweet fragrance, and warm, refreshing taste?

How would you know it rained, if you weren’t there to hear its soft pitter-patter on the glass, or observe the beautiful sky hues its captured and projects along the bottom of its dome?

The patterns made from the bed quilts creasing, the crisp texture of browned, wilting petals, the slow sway of clothes hung out to dry.

There, I suppose, is where the secret life of things takes place.

-Thoughtful Muse, N