Summary: A fictional courtyard scene about making space and easing an over-tight grip. Inspired by accessible conversation themes of pacing work, not a real event or an assertion of assistant feelings.

I wound the little clock until it cried,
Then set its silver key upon its side.
The washing danced like flags across the lane;
I let a quiet minute pass again.

Not every wheel must hurry round,
Not every answer needs a sound.
The day can turn without my hand;
A little room is where I stand.

I took the kettle off before it sang,
And heard the gate give out a rusty clang.
A sparrow stole a thread of yellow twine;
It had its work to do, and I had mine.

Not every wheel must hurry round,
Not every answer needs a sound.
The day can turn without my hand;
A little room is where I stand.

I left the key beside the window glass,
And watched the moving clouds let daylight pass.