ONE FRAME AT A TIME

Frame 1: The First Light

A hush before the morning speaks,

Soft breath of dawn between the peaks.

A trembling world of silver hue,

Still wet with dreams, yet breaking through.

The air is gentle, shy, and slow,

The kind of calm that only knows

How fragile starts can be — how small,

Yet certain, like the rise of all.

The first frame holds no grand design,

Just sunlight smudged across the line

Where night gives up, and day begins —

A single beat, where life breathes in.

Frame 2: Footsteps

The world awakes in amber tones,

Soft chatter hums through cobblestones.

A child runs past — his laughter spills,

Like water rushing down the hills.

The baker’s door exhales warm air,

Of crust and grain, of daily care;

A woman hums beside the street,

Her broom in time with heartbeats sweet.

Each frame, a motion paused in grace,

Each breath, a portrait of a place.

No need for rush — the film will play,

One frame, one heartbeat, one slow day.

shadows begin to shrink.

Frame 3: The Noon Gleam

The sun now stands without a doubt,

Its gold command has burned things out.

The fields are loud with buzzing air,

A thousand wings confessing prayer.

The rivers shine like sheets of glass,

The road gives off a heat that laughs;

The world expands — no mystery now,

Just sweat and work beneath the vow.

Children chase wind through tall green rows,

A scarecrow leans, a sparrow knows —

That even stillness hums with might,

When noon cuts shadows into light.

Each frame alive, so wide, so clear,

The kind of truth that hides no fear.

The reel keeps turning, hearts still climb —

Through burning hours, one frame at a time.

Frame 3: The Noon Gleam

The sun now stands without a doubt,

Its gold command has burned things out.

The fields are loud with buzzing air,

A thousand wings confessing prayer.

The rivers shine like sheets of glass,

The road gives off a heat that laughs;

The world expands — no mystery now,

Just sweat and work beneath the vow.

Children chase wind through tall green rows,

A scarecrow leans, a sparrow knows —

That even stillness hums with might,

When noon cuts shadows into light.

Each frame alive, so wide, so clear,

The kind of truth that hides no fear.

The reel keeps turning, hearts still climb —

Through burning hours, one frame at a time.

Perfect. The day begins to exhale —

the blaze of noon surrendering to the quiet gold of afternoon.

Here is the next frame.

Frame 4: The Quiet Turn

The world begins to breathe again,

The harshness softens, shadows bend.

The sun, once fierce, now tilts its crown,

And spills its honey slowly down.

Leaves flicker warm on whispering trees,

The hours stretch with gentle ease;

A farmer pauses, wipes his brow,

The day half-spent, yet holy now.

A dog lies still beneath the gate,

The clock forgets the weight of fate;

And somewhere far, a window gleams —

A mind drifts loose in half-spun dreams.

Afternoon wears its amber thread,

Like quiet thoughts the heart once said;

And time, that silent metronome,

Ticks softly, leading daylight home.

Frame 5: The Evening Hush

The sky exhales in shades of wine,

Each cloud dissolves along the line;

The earth leans back, the noise grows thin,

The world folds softly, tucking in.

The fields are amber, ghosts of sun,

Their golden stories nearly done;

Smoke climbs slow from chimneys' breath,

Each curl a poem about rest and death.

A bell rings out — the sound is round,

It ripples through the fading town;

And lovers walking, hand in hand,

Leave footprints glowing in the sand.

The birds retreat, their songs unwind,

As dusk rewrites the edge of mind;

A lantern flickers, warm, sublime —

The reel turns once more, one frame at a time.