The cold toast bitten small crumbs left

The cold toast, bitten, small crumbs left

on the plate. The morning silent,

except for the faint, steady theft

of heat from the window, condensation fluent

in its slow descent.

Jam, a dark, sweet smear,

spread with care, a moment spent

on nothing but this, holding fear

at bay. The butter, yellow, melting slow.

Each bite, a small commitment made

to the day, a tiny, quiet glow.

The outside world, still grey, unmade.

This simple act, a small, worn prayer,

in a house too quiet, too aware.