A cracked coffee cup,
warmed by morning’s first light,
fills my hands like a prayer.
Steam rises, thin and quiet,
a gift I almost missed.
The sun spills golden over streets,
kisses window ledges, doorsteps, and skin,
softening the world in ways I overlook.
Somewhere, a bird sings alone,
a song too brief, a treasure I ignore.
I rush by, eyes fixed on tasks,
fingers tapping to endless beats,
unaware of wind brushing leaves and strangers’ laughter, low and bright.
These moments hide, small and sacred.
A child’s sticky fingers wrap around my hand,
trust is so open, so rare.
A candle’s quiet flicker,
a breeze stirring the chimes,
whispers of blessings disguised as dust.
There is music in a pot’s bubbling,
in keys dropped, laughter spilled,
the scratch of pen to paper,
and the first sip of clean, cold water.
These are riches we discard.
I hold a worn-out quilt,
frayed at the edges and torn in parts.
Its warmth wraps me like a mother’s arms,
like the hands that stitched it close.
It’s only fabric, but it holds for years.
Look at the moon, hanging silent,
a pearl in the quiet sky,
and the stars, small, unnoticed flames,
burning whether we see them or not.
They give without expecting thanks.
In the smell of fresh-cut grass,
in the rain pounding, then softening,
there’s grace we rarely name.
We live like thieves, stealing moments,
forgetting each one’s worth.
A breeze lifts hair from my face
and sends my thoughts fluttering like leaves.
I could miss this, as I often do,
in the chase, the noise, and the blur.
But here it is, my quiet gift.
Every breath I draw is wealth,
each blink a blessing’s passing shadow,
each step an invitation to pause,
to feel the earth beneath,
to remember we belong to it.
How quickly we dismiss our blessings,
wrapped up in routine and rust.
A glance, a touch, a voice heard close,
they’re treasures we turn into dust.
Simple things we fail to praise.
I forget the glow of a candle,
its warmth more than just light.
The way shadows dance against walls,
moving in time with the night’s pulse,
whispering truths I never hear.
Even the ache in my bones is a gift,
a reminder I am alive,
a song in my blood that sings of years,
of days I still hold in my hands,
of time that slips but not unnoticed.
There is wonder in the slightest breath,
in the way, light shifts through trees,
in the voice of a friend saying my name.
Such simple, quiet things,
blessings are hidden in plain sight.
When I stop and see I am rich,
each overlooked moment a pearl,
strung together, forgotten jewels,
making life’s necklace shimmer anew.
They are mine if I choose to notice.
So let me learn to see again,
to count the crumbs that fill my days,
to hold each gift, however small,
and feel its weight, its worth,
before it slips like sand through fingers.
For every whispered breath,
for every laugh, every tear,
there is beauty in being here,
in feeling, holding, letting go,
a simple, profound, and precious thing. Let me praise each quiet hour,
each pulse, each sigh, each grain of grace.
For these are the treasures that fill us,
hidden in daylight, easy to miss.
Simple things, yet priceless gifts.
For poetry and more, visit Mecella.