The Slant

Dust motes drift in the quiet room, Caught in a sudden shaft of gold, Suspended above the worn oak floor.

The window holds its breath outside, Where frost still clings to the empty branch, Waiting for the promised thaw.

A forgotten book lies on the chair, Its pages curled by the winter air, Silvered in the morning's silent reach.

Time settles like the gentle ash, Neither moving forward nor looking back, Just warming the wood beneath the glass.