Peace.
It’s soft and it’s cool.
It’s free and it’s flowing.
And quiet. (Good heavens it’s quiet. I close my eyes for that one. Truly. I close my eyes.)
Peace.
It lives in the candle beside me; within this flame, still and perfect.
I drink tea alone—peace lives there.
And the wind, swaying green beyond the window: it stops me as I wander.
It brings me home.
Peace is the language that brings me home.
Peace.
It is such a beautiful thing.
And it’s funny. How long it has taken me to see its worth.
That I’ve been looking for it. That, always, it’s been mine.
If only I’d known that I needed it.
I needed it.
Peace. I need it, still.
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