Hold the Moment

A doorway glows with a whispered tune,

dust motes drift in a sleepy room.

Footsteps slow on a wooden floor,

a quiet can-can of chores in bloom.

An old hat sits warm upon his brow,

the plaid unfolds like a memory’s vow.

Pocket deep where secrets like to hide,

boots trace stories in the faded light.

Washing drums hum a patient refrain,

shirts and stains like stars in a plain.

Shelves bow under the weight of dawn,

a breeze and breath of a life nongone.

He stands between the noise and doors,

where quiet hums of metal chorus pours.

Hold the moment, don’t let it fade,

in this doorway where meanings cascade.

Light spills soft from the hallway line,

he wears a calm that never tires.

Hold the moment, let it stay,

the present learns to breathe and sway.

In the hush, his hands find their tune,

in the rhythm of a laundry moon.

Clutter stacks like a shoreline of days,

a map of hours in a cupboard's maze.

The washing machine keeps time with a sigh,

linted confetti drifting through the sky.

Right arm down, left hand in his pocket’s keep,

he counts the breaths that the room can keep.

A ladder of shelves, a stack of pleas,

tools and towels rustle in the breeze.

He wears his quiet like a second skin,

a gateway where dawn slides back in.

Hold the moment, don’t let it fade,

in this doorway where meanings cascade.

Light spills soft from the hallway line,

he wears a calm that never tires.

Hold the moment, let it stay,

the present learns to breathe and sway.

In the hush, his hands find their tune,

in the rhythm of a laundry moon.

A thrum of distant life behind the glass,

a kettle’s whistle leaking from the past.

He steps back, zeroed in on what remains,

the simple throne of work and rain.

A silhouette in plaid, a weathered friend,

the kitchen hums a script that won’t amend.

He glances over, a quiet nod to time,

a story etched in copper and lime.

Hold the moment, don’t let it fade,

in this doorway where meanings cascade.

Light spills soft from the hallway line,

he wears a calm that never tires.

Hold the moment, let it stay,

the present learns to breathe and sway.

In the hush, his hands find their tune,

in the rhythm of a laundry moon.

Doorway dims, but the pulse remains,

a doorframe song through the cluttered plains.

And every breath keeps the scene in tune,

the cowboy clock beneath a wandering moon.