a poem by Roger B. Rueda
The secret is not
in arriving at the ruins
before sunrise, nor
in learning how to pronounce
the names of gods
etched into the stone.
It is in knowing
how to lift a spoon
without spilling its oil—
a trick of the wrist,
a small devotion.
You must walk
through the world with awe
coiled in your chest like string
and still remember the rice
left cooking at home,
the plants you forgot to water,
the letter half-written
on your desk.
It’s easy to lose yourself
in marvels—
in the stained-glass hush
of cathedrals, in the neon
blur of night trains
crossing cities
you’ll never name.
But what good is wonder
if you drop the life
you carry?
Happiness is this:
watching a bird rise
above the rooftops
while your hand—
calm, deliberate—
steadies the spoon.
Neither spills.
Both matter.
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