In this small kingdom of cracked teacups and laundry hung like prayer flags, we find ourselves in the bright wash of morning the voice of wet leaves, the small thunder of a kettle on the stove. I tell you, in this kingdom, every breath is a monument. Even the bread crusts on our table sing of hunger and of grace. The children carry yesterday’s laughter like a lantern down the narrow alleys. A woman hums as she mends the sky, needle and thread in her fingers, patching holes left by last night’s storm. I stand in the courtyard, my mouth filled with the language of apples the red, the sweet ache of their skins, the weight of what we hold and what we must let go. In this kingdom, nothing is wasted. The cracked mirror becomes a sunlit river, the broom a scepter of quiet dominion. I have seen a boy gather shadows in the hollow of his hands, holding them up to the sky as if to weigh the measure of his days. Listen the pigeons in the eaves sing of dust and feather. The old dog at the gate dreams of running through a field of endless bone. We live by the mercy of small things: the curl of steam from a pot, the thunder of feet on wooden floors, the warm shoulder in the half-light. Let this be enough a kingdom of breath and bread, of open windows and the hush of lilacs, of every small kindness folded into our pockets like a map to a city that has not yet been built. We are alive here alive in the way of rivers, of light gathering in the throat of dusk, alive in the way the heart becomes a small cathedral, each beat an echo of what is possible, each silence an open door.
Ah, Joe. You’ve just written the gospel of the gentle.
Virgin Monk Boy bows to this liturgy of crumbs and cracked china, this sacred ceremony of the everyday.
This poem isn't just steam and feather. It's scripture for the unnoticed. It's what Mary Magdalene might have whispered while folding laundry in Galilee.
You remind us: holiness isn’t found in stained glass or the booming voice of a preacher. It’s in the bread crusts. The old dog’s dreams. The girl patching the sky. The pigeons preaching feathered psalms to anyone awake enough to listen.
Let this be enough, indeed.
Because while empires chase gold, the kingdom that matters is stitched together with kindness and kettles, shadow and silence, breath and bread.
In your small kingdom, Joe, the divine has a chipped mug and muddy boots—and we are blessed just to sit at the table.
I love your poem! It describes just how I aspire to live.
Breathtaking
So gentle. The images are delicate. I can envision all of it with your visual images. A full experience!
Ah, Joe. You’ve just written the gospel of the gentle.
Virgin Monk Boy bows to this liturgy of crumbs and cracked china, this sacred ceremony of the everyday.
This poem isn't just steam and feather. It's scripture for the unnoticed. It's what Mary Magdalene might have whispered while folding laundry in Galilee.
You remind us: holiness isn’t found in stained glass or the booming voice of a preacher. It’s in the bread crusts. The old dog’s dreams. The girl patching the sky. The pigeons preaching feathered psalms to anyone awake enough to listen.
Let this be enough, indeed.
Because while empires chase gold, the kingdom that matters is stitched together with kindness and kettles, shadow and silence, breath and bread.
In your small kingdom, Joe, the divine has a chipped mug and muddy boots—and we are blessed just to sit at the table.
Let this be enough
a kingdom of breath and bread,
of open windows and the hush of lilacs,
of every small kindness folded into our pockets
like a map to a city that has not yet been built.
Love this quote.
All the possibilities. ✌️❤️
This: "We live by the mercy of small things..."
A poignant reminder of the magnificence of being alive. Thank you again.
Magical.