What the Day Leaves Behind: tanka-prose

By afternoon, the light has changed its mind.
It slips through the curtains at a sharper angle, touching the floor as if testing its warmth. Outside, a leaf drifts past the window—unhurried, unbothered by destination. I notice how often I rush past such moments, believing arrival matters more than presence.
There is a softness in slowing down, a kind of listening that happens when nothing demands to be done. A spoon rests in the sink. A chair remembers the shape of a body. Even absence leaves an imprint.
Some gifts arrive quietly and stay unnoticed until evening, when the world exhales and we finally hear ourselves think. What we keep is not the day itself, but the tenderness it leaves behind.

late afternoon light—
even the shadows linger
as if unsure
whether to leave or stay
inside this gentler hour