I watch the sunlight spill across the table, golden and warm, like a quiet blessing. There is bread—crusty, soft inside— the kind that whispers of earth and water, of hands that kneaded and waited.
A bowl of ripe tomatoes, their skins like stained glass, glowing with the promise of summer’s end. And herbs—basil, thyme— their scent rises like a prayer, a fragrant exhalation of life itself.
I taste, and find the sweetness in the simplest things— the soft butter melting on warm bread, the slow, deliberate sip of wine, the silence that fills the space between bites with gratitude.
This meal is not just food— it’s the quiet song of the world, the gentle unfolding of what is enough, a reminder that beauty lives in small, sacred moments— a plate, a taste, a breath— and in the company of what is real.
