Not every morning begins with brilliance.
Some arrive soft,like breath on glass,
unnoticed except by the leaves that turn slightly
toward the warmth.

Life is mostly this-
the forgotten toast,
the traffic light changing for no one,
the hum of the fridge sounding like a heartbeat
you don't know you're listening to.

We live not in the moments that explode,
but in the long silence that follows them.

There is no audience for folding laundry,
fir standing barefoot in a kitchen
at 2 a.m. eating cold rice
because sleep feels like a stranger.

Still,the sun comes back-
not heroic,
not blazing-
just present,
again and again,
like someone who never stops
showing up,
even when no one says thank you.

And maybe that's enough.
Maybe life is
a thousand ordinary suns
warming a million unnoticed things.