Leaving Breadcrumbs

There’s a stranger who hums a tune  

you once heard your mother sing softly  

on a Saturday filled with open windows.  

A book falls open to the exact page  

that whispers what your heart secretly  

needed but never knew how to ask.  

The universe has small hands, you see—  

tipping teacups just before they shatter,  

dropping you into rooms full of laughter,  

or silence heavy enough to teach.  

Coincidences wear no name tags,  

carry no reason, but they carry you—  

timing their pace with your footsteps  

as if they’ve known your rhythm forever.  

There’s a beauty in being nudged gently,  

without a voice announcing intention  

but a sharp tug at the seams of doubt.  

As if God is showing you the trail,  

but never leaving a single fingerprint,  

to remind you this path is still yours.