Small Things, Great Love

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.