6:47

The quiet this morning, a different kind,

too bright, too early, left me out of mind.

Woke up before the sun could climb,

and missed the usual sign, the chime.

Mr. Henderson, precise and true,

his paper, rolled, a pale blue

plastic wrap. A soft, small thud,

at 6:47, like clockwork, blood

to the day's slow start. I never thought

how much that sound, unheard, had brought.

A comfort, a quiet, known beat,

against the window, cold and neat.

Now, just the wind, a restless shift,

and a memory, a small, sudden rift.

The world, unanchored, just a bit,

without that small, reliable hit.