Threshold Stillness

Rough wood presses cold into palms,

white paint peeling in flaking swaths.

A chair leans heavy against the corner,

shadows stretch thin, pull close, then pass.

Earth scents the air—damp, raw, and slow,

a stray dog circles tired and low.

The street hums quiet beneath the dusk,

edges sharp beneath fading glow.

Light licks cracks in splintered rails,

where nothing moves but dust and time.

I sit caught between here and gone,

in the loose thread of evening’s rhyme.