—this poem lives in that liminal space, the practice round, where you rehearse thankfulness the way one rehearses a difficult truth; softly, awkwardly, with a warm cup in hand

You start with what the morning gives,
a mug that warms your colder fingers,
a chair that creaks in greying light,
a silence kind enough to linger.

You name the smallest things out loud,
the ones that never make the list,
the steady hum of running heat,
the memory of someone’s wrist
brushed lightly against yours once,
the kettle’s rise, the spoon’s soft kiss.

You try again. The words feel stiff,
like shoes for celebrations past.
Gratitude comes slow in winter,
it’s meant to. Nothing blooms too fast.

Still, you speak. The room leans close.
Your breath warms up the cooling glass.
You sip the cup. You try again.
Some mercies only come in drafts.

📜 Practice for Gratitude – The Recipe

Ingredients:

Instructions:
Hold the mug in both hands. Say thanks for the warmth first, it’s the easiest. Name one good thing you didn’t earn. Name one you almost forgot. Sip slowly; gratitude, like steam, rises best when unforced.