This book doesn't shout. It hums. It's a quiet rebellion against the idea that only the grand or tragic deserves our attention. What you'll find here is smaller, steadier poems that believe the ordinary can be holy if you look at it long enough. They take the daily fragments we usually overlook: the cooling mug on the counter, the burnt match, the scrape of a chair, and let them glow with meaning. Read a few lines aloud and you'll feel the shift, the way the language exhales, how the poems start calm and then crack open just enough to let the heart show through. The details are close and tactile: salt drying on skin, a shoreline breathing against itself, the kettle's soft insistence. Honesty here isn't a confession, it's a practice. The poems don't reach for spectacle; they reach for truth, and that's what makes them powerful. If you're looking for rules, there aren't any. These pieces move like vignettes, small resurrections of what's easily forgotten. A wet sleeve becomes a prayer. A laugh breaks into a sob. A fingerprint on glass feels like a kind of answer. There's a quiet defiance in these pages. Not a call to arms, but a gentler form of resistance: making bread, keeping a light on, measuring love in steps, not distances. If you need comfort that doesn't condescend, grief that feels lived-in, and love described as an act rather than a performance, this book will find you. It's the kind of tenderness you hold with both hands, small, deliberate, and lasting - the kind that stays with you long after the page closes, tucked in the same pocket where promises live

Mode of access: World Wide Web