We rarely notice the quiet importance,
until the clock spins past it, unforgiving.
A word spoken softly over morning coffee,
a smile exchanged under tired streetlights—
not dramatic, just small and sunlit,
like dust specks settling on a windowsill.
Later, we pin meaning to that Tuesday,
or the offhand note scribbled in haste.
Small coins of memory tucked in pockets,
their worth unknown until the pockets tear.
Life barrels forward, loud, relentless, impatient,
but it’s the quiet moments that linger longest.
The days we race through without looking back,
will someday build the corners of our stories.
Meaning waits in the spaces we do not,
humming softly, hoping we pause long enough.