Here, where the hour unclasps its hook,
I place my breath back into the earth.
The day exhales through leaves and water,
and time becomes a wide, listening bowl
receiving the quiet weight of now.

I slow until my pulse learns the language
of stones warmed by late afternoon.
Light kneels across the floor of the world,
each particle a small act of praise,
each shadow a patient teacher.

In this deceleration, devotion ripens.
I bow to the space between heartbeats,
where the unseen arranges itself gently.
Nothing asks to be hurried or fixed —
everything waits, already whole.

I remain, softened and unguarded,
as if held inside a long-stemmed white candle.
Movement becomes circular, merciful, true.
What I sought arrives without footsteps,
and I consent to stay, stay, stay.