Some days

the win is small enough

to be mistaken

for loss.

A phone full of birthday messages

finally answered.

A small closing of circles.

A soft return.

The farmers market alone—

warm bread under arm,

fruit heavy with sun,

greens gathered

for only my approval.

A new bookstore.

The owners.

A little chitchat

at the edge of belonging.

The beach

for one minute only.

Water witnessed.

Breath adjusted.

Day resumed.

At the door,

a dog—

tippy-tapping toes,

that graceful bow,

the whole bright body of her

saying yes

to my return.

Evening sky

burning beautifully

at the seams.

A dandelion.

A wish.

Breath given over

to something secret

and chosen.

A candle

smelling of pepper

and sandalwood—

close enough to home

for the body to unclench.

Butter. Sugar. Oven-warmth.

Baking for your children.

Sending them out

with proof.

This is how a life gathers:

not only in rupture,

not only in blaze,

but here—

in the almost-missed,

the briefly beheld,

the quietly kept.

Some wins

do not announce themselves.

They smell of pepper

and sandalwood.

They look like sea light.

They sound like claws

on the floor.

And still,

they count.