Zebra Seeking Spoons

Most days blur together

The typical slew of symptoms and suffering

A balancing act of spoons

But every so often

a glimmer slips through.

A moment when my body

loosens its fists.

A sentence read without fog.

A laugh that surprises me

by being easy.

These glimmers are rare birds—

I never know

when they will land.

They arrive in ordinary clothing:

a warm cup held without shaking,

a song remembered word for word,

an hour that belongs to me

instead of to the ache.

I have learned

not to chase them,

not to demand they stay.

I simply notice—

here you are,

you small miracle.

They do not erase the hard days.

They do not bargain with tomorrow.

But they remind me

that I am more

than my symptoms,

more than the careful math

of spoons and limits.

Hope, in this life,

is not a grand promise.

It is a thin beam of light

finding its way

under a stubborn door.

And when it appears,

even briefly,

I let it warm my hands

and remember:

I am still here.