It begins with mornings-
a cup held warm between yor hands,
a glance across a quiet room,
the soft rhythm of ordinary hours.

You don't notice the shift,
not at first.
A season ends,
another begins,
and the familiar becomes
a kind of shelter.

One dat,you look back
and realize
the moments you rushed through
were the ones that stayed.

A lifetime isn't made
of milestones,
but of breath,
of waiting rooms,
of laughter in kitchens,
of goodbyes that didn't seem final
until they were.

And so the days gather,
not loudly,
but with steady hands,
folding themselves
into the shape
of forever.