“Gather up the fragments,

that nothing be lost”—

so even crumbs

become a silo of abundance.

The night keeps count

of every restless turning,

each tear stoppered

in an unseen flask,

as if sorrow itself

were vintage,

kept for the day of pouring.

What we labour for,

though hidden,

is never in vain—

the soil remembers

every hand that tills it,

every seed pressed down

into the dark.

And in the end,

all things are braided—

loss and gain,

silence and song—

woven toward a good

we glimpse only in part,

yet trust as whole.

.