It is not the thick vault
heavy with cold proof.
Not the high pillar
carved with a proud name.
The visible thing fades.

It is the sudden pause.
The quick intake of air
when the mind softens.
The space between tasks.
The absolute now.

The hours given freely.
The slow, quiet exchange.
Wasted sunlight poured
onto the dry ground
of shared attention.

This fragile currency
spent without record.
The heat of one palm
settled upon another.
The grounding anchor.

Not the elaborate plan
with too many steps.
Not the polished phrase
worked until smooth.
It is the immediate word.

The capacity for grace.
The conscious choice to yield.
To drop the heavy shield.
To speak an honest truth
without demanding return.

How the light falls
on the ordinary wall.
The pattern of dust motes
dancing in the brief shaft.
To truly observe this.

The weight of deep silence.
A knowing glance held
for one moment too long.
The long, slow learning
of another’s rhythm.

The small tendernesses.
A tucked blanket corner.
Warmth offered simply
without fanfare or fuss.
The unnoticed kindness.

The things that endure
are always the lightest.
The pure memory of laughter.
The echo of old footsteps.
The intangible root.

We spend our years gathering
what cannot be held fast.
Polishing the surface view.
Ignoring the deep well
where the true water rests.

It is the inner room.
The careful arrangement
of your fears and hopes.
To face that structure
without needing to fix it.

The terrifying simplicity
of standing completely bare.
To watch the world breathe
and know you belong here
without demanding proof.

The tight grip of a child.
The worn texture of age.
Hands that have labored.
Hands that have comforted.
The full history of touch.

The quiet act of release.
Letting the wrong action go.
Not forgetting the sharp hurt
but refusing its bitter power.
This freedom sustains us.

The steady return home.
Not a specific place
but a recognized hearth.
The scent of pure belonging.
The door always unlocked.

It is the quick flutter
of the heart’s recognition.
A moment of intense seeing
that cannot be prolonged.
But must be accepted whole.

Not measured by totals.
Not indexed by cold markets.
But by the deep presence found
when all else is stripped away.
The pure residue remains.

The fierce effort to focus
on the immediate, small light.
Ignoring the loud sirens
and the distant, rising noise.
The clarity of purpose.

The most important thing?
It is that we showed up.
We offered our frail self.
We remembered the warmth.
We loved what we saw fully.