Bread curls itself into silent hands.
Steam lifts like prayer, rising unseen.
A spoon taps the bowl, steady rhythm.
Chairs creak, soft thrones of small kingdoms.
Did you notice the table’s quiet breath?
How plates gather, waiting without pride?
Each meal, a circle drawn in dust.
Each bite, a communion of the forgotten.
Jesus knew the language of daily things.
How hunger speaks louder than sermons.
The ordinary bread, a teacher’s whisper.
The cup tilting, echoes of deep wells.
We swallow not just food, but stories.
We taste the weight of what feeds us.
A thousand tables remind us gently:
The holy lives in what we don't name.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: May 9th, 2025 11:35
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 16
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
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Comments2
Beautiful words cloth wisdom in this poem. Well done Gray
Beautifully crafted write, important messages and wisdom within the words, enjoyed the read
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