Some mornings, the light comes slow,
draping corners like a shy hello.
We want greatness in billboards flashing,
names in lights, applause for courage.
But outside, moss hums its quiet work,
ants soldier crumbs to unseen palaces.
The world has a spine made of whispers,
hands cradling moments with patient care.
Fold the laundry, rinse the day\'s plates,
write a note where goodbye would sit.
Not all of us draw galaxies in sand,
but love is a broom, sweeping gently.
So spit-shine the small, ordinary things,
let them glow like fireflies in jars.
The heart remembers what the hands hold,
kindness woven tight through the seams.