Quietly Sighing

Feature Image: I still find myself looking toward the bright side — from somewhere just beneath the flowering wishing tree on the moon.

This afternoon’s café quiet carried me back to the edges of last week’s stroke‑fatigue episode — not in fear, but in recognition. I sat with its soft ache, like a body sighing before it speaks, and let the moment settle around me.

Frankie watched on from his blue bench, patient as ever, while the wishing tree above reminded me that even on the slower days, hope still hangs from familiar branches.

Here’s the poem that found me there.




Quietly Sighing

Here in the cafe,
staying away
from yesterday.

Not hiding
nor crying —
just quietly sighing.

Another sand dune climbed;
that’ll do for now,
until next time.

My tired old wings
remain firmly attached
to my heartstrings —
an antique violin
miming today’s tunes.

And I’m still able to see
tomorrow’s wishing tree
flowering on the moon.

When the poem settles, I softly step from the wishing tree on the moon into Mendelssohn’s sighing wind.

Ivor Steven ©  October 2026