Gratitude

We count the cracks, not how the light slips through, naming the missing, never what we grew. The heart keeps ledgers of what’s gone wrong, but forgets the quiet gifts all along. A sky half-gray still holds its blue, a wilted rose remembers dew. We trade our peace for what we chase, and miss the warmth already in place. Gratitude isn’t loud or grand — it hums beneath a steady hand. To see the whole, not just the scar, is to know how blessed we really are.