The Ink Chapel

The world is burning–
and still, the sun blooms at 6:04.

Someone loses everything,
and a stranger leaves tulips on their doorstep
with no note,
just hope wrapped in stems.

I hear sirens,
but then a child sings off-key
like she invented joy that morning.

I see wars and wounds and headlines
that bleed out louder than my thoughts–
but then a hummingbird hovers
by my cracked kitchen window,
its wings saying stay.

Beauty isn’t loud.
She doesn’t beg.
She just shows up.
Sometimes in chipped paint
or rain on rust,
in the wrinkles of a hand
still reaching out
when life has only ever
closed its fists.

She’s in the small things.
The stubborn things.
The overlooked and undervalued.
The thing that keeps showing up
in a world that keeps falling apart.

And maybe that’s the whole miracle.

Not that beauty saves us–
but that she tries to.

Every. Single. Day.

© The Ink Chapel. Don’t steal my trauma. Thanks.