Quietude by guest poet Joseph Giovane

Quietude
By Joseph Giovane

There’s a quietness when you engage in the work with me,
a kind of knowing that settles over you like early morning fog.
It’s not loud, not something that calls you with trumpets and fanfare,
but something simpler—like a path hidden in plain sight,
waiting for the right moment to reveal itself.

You step forward, not sure why, but feeling the ground shift beneath you,
familiar and new all at once, the world widening
with every step you take away from what you thought you were.
This work is an undoing, a soft unraveling of what you’ve carried,
and in that letting go, you find something real, something true.

It’s like walking a path through woods you thought you knew,
only to see with fresh eyes the patterns of branches,
the way the light slips between leaves, the quiet miracle
of something whole, unbroken, holding space for you
as you come undone, only to find yourself again.

There is something mythic here, though it doesn’t wear a myth’s clothing—
it’s a quiet myth, an ordinary kind of wonder,
like an old story whispered over coffee,
its magic found not in the telling,
but in the silence that follows.

And when you return, you return as someone who has seen
beyond the self you thought was whole.
You’re changed, not by some grand revelation,
but by something softer, subtler, like light on a river
that you can’t hold, but that holds you just the same.

You’ve traveled farther than you can explain,
only to come home to a self that feels both familiar and new,
grounded, present, like a stone on the path—
solid, humble, but touched by something infinite.

And now, wherever you walk, you carry a quiet wonder,
a sense of the myth that breathes beneath the ordinary,
a knowing that the world holds more than it shows,
and so do you.