Dealt

Dealt

A pack lies quiet on the oak‑stained table,
the velvet cloth a quiet sea of night;
each card a whisper, shuffled, turned, uncrumpled—
the dealer’s hand a steady, patient light.

We speak of hands we’ve been dealt, of fates unchosen,
the ace of hope tucked deep inside the cuff,
the queen of sorrow, regal, softly spoken,
the jack of mischief, teasing, bright enough.

Yet dealing is not merely chance’s cruel game,
it is the choice to lay the card down true,
to face the turn, to call the hand, to claim
the weight of what we’ve been given— and what we’ll do.

So when the night grows thin and candles gutter low,
remember: every hand, however dealt,
is yours to play, to fold, or gently show—
the game is yours, the deal is yours, and felt.