Quite Hands

There is a peculiar kind of strength  

in folding napkins along restless tables,  

in sweeping crumbs too small to matter.  

The way grace finds its footing  

in unnoticed corners, beneath flickering light,  

where nobody stops to marvel.  

Greatness doesn’t wear a crown;  

it humbles itself in calloused palms,  

in knees bent beside broken gardens,  

in the tender mending of what’s frayed.  

No banners announce the pouring of water,  

the washing of feet, the bowing of heads.  

Instead, it presses itself into the earth:  

steady, steady, and insists—"More of this, please."  

Do not climb ladders that only lean  

against the trembling walls of applause.  

Kneel instead on the floorboards of service,  

where your hands become prayers,  

your work becomes sacred,  

and the world whispers, softer than rain,  

"This is enough."