Lazy Zara Tumbletown

Lazy Zara Tumbletown

Zara wakes when the morning is tired,

sunlight slipping through half closed eyes,

her hair a wild and laughing mess,

thread and colour caught inside.

Nothing about her asks for order,

nothing about her wants to rush.

She sinks into her favourite chair,

cup of warmth held in her hand,

watching time like it is passing,

yet never asking her to follow.

Spools roll softly at her feet,

like little worlds she might begin.

There are dresses waiting in silence,

half dreamed shapes without a seam,

patterns sketched in drifting thought,

not yet ready to be born.

Zara smiles at their impatience,

and lets them rest a while longer.

Outside, the day moves on without her,

quick with purpose, loud with need,

but inside her quiet corner,

life unfolds at its own pace.

A stitch imagined is enough,

a plan can wait another hour.

People call her lazy, careless,

lost in moments that drift away,

yet they never see the magic,

in the way her stillness works.

For in her pause, the world softens,

and something gentle starts to form.

When she finally lifts her fingers,

thread meets fabric, calm and sure,

and what was once a distant dream,

falls neatly into place.

Zara was never lost or idle,

she was listening all along.

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