A haiku does not explain. It points, and then it steps aside.

We live surrounded by words that want something from us. Sell, scroll, click, react. This is a small room without any of that. One image. One turn. One quiet door left open for you to walk through.

Stillness is not the absence of motion. It is motion that has found its center.

Every poem here is written fresh, posted once each morning, and then it stays — a year of mornings becomes a kind of almanac of the inner weather.

Read it. Sit with it for the length of one breath. Then carry it into whatever your day asks of you. If it serves you, send it to someone who needs the same quiet.

That is the whole purpose. Nothing more, and nothing less.