A Skosh

A skosh of sunlight through the blinds,  

a skosh of honey stirred in tea,  

a skosh of courage tucked in shoes.  

You tell me, "It's not much—just a  

skosh," like scraps were never enough,  

like slivers couldn't count as whole.  

But I’ve seen pinkie promises hold  

entire universes between two fingers.  

A skosh is the whisper before the  

shout, the inhale before a Yes.  

It's the space between your hand  

and mine, stretched but still reaching.  

This life, made of skoshes stitched,  

a patchwork quilt of almost too little.  

And yet, it’s everything we ever need

a skosh of love always filling the rest.