Poetry

Sense

Sense – a quiet compass in the breast, A whisper of the world that lingers, Not merely sight, nor sound, nor taste, But the subtle thread that weaves them all. It is

Often

Often the rain sighs against the windowpane, A soft refrain that drifts through quiet streets, Where lovers pause beneath the amber glow Of lamplight that flickers like a hesitant promise. Often we

Match

On a damp kitchen shelf, a solitary match lies, its wooden shaft a humble brown, the sulphur tip a shy surprise. When struck against the rough‑hewn side, a sudden flare ignites— a tiny

Price

Price In market stalls where voices rise, A quiet ledger holds the ties— Each coin exchanged, a whispered trade, The worth of things that hands have made. Not only gold nor silvered gleam, But

Psalm

In the hushed nave where morning light pools pale, A psalm rises, soft as the sigh of summer rain, Each line a thread of wool woven through the stone, Binding the faithful to

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