Cornbread

When the world feels like crumbly cornbread,

look for joy in the burnished gloss of a horse chestnut,

the inky purple of pokeweed,

the quiet persistence of late-August clematis.

Even the neighbor’s trash pile hides small treasures—

tiny hands reaching for bent spectacles

that once framed someone’s view of the world.

Breathe in the sweaty summer

as it dries into autumn air;

feel the crisp cool edge cut through humidity.

Remember: even crumbs of cornbread feed the mice.

With gentle, cupped hands

we can gather those pieces, press them back together—

like Play-Doh, rolled into a small, dense ball,

a cornbread snack,

a round little world filled with small pleasures.