The Calm Before the Storm

January arrives like a whispered rhyme,

soft as frost and slow as time,
a hush that lingers in silver air,
as if the world forgets to care.

Mornings bloom in muted light,
gentle gold instead of bright,
where hours drift like clouds at sea,
unbound, unclaimed, quietly free.

There is a silence, deep yet warm,
the tender calm before the storm,
like petals closed before they rise,
or secrets held in winter skies.

You feel it hum beneath your skin,
a quiet shift about to begin,
like tides that wait for moon’s command,
or waves that kiss then leave the sand.

Soon, the rhythm will return,
with ticking clocks and lessons to learn,
calls that echo, days that race,
and time that never stays in place.

But now there’s peace in every breath,
a stillness untouched by rush or stress,
where nothing asks and nothing proves,
and life flows slow in softer grooves.

It is fragile, this fleeting pause,
like dew that clings without a cause,
or glass that gleams in morning sun
before the day has just begun.

A breath held long before release,
a quiet promise wrapped in peace,
a page untouched, a song unsung,
a story waiting on the tongue.

You hold it close, yet let it go,
like winter melting into flow,
for calm was never meant to stay—
it only shows another way.

And when the storm begins its art,
with restless winds and hurried heart,
you’ll carry this stillness deep inside—
a quiet place where you can hide.