baker’s gift

 

In friendship,  

it’s the extra call late at night,  

the remembered laugh from years ago—  

something unasked, freely given.  

 

In service,  

it’s the coffee shop adding a biscuit,  

the mechanic wiping the corners of the window  

without a word,  

small touches we barely notice,  

yet carry home.  

 

In art,  

it’s the brushstroke tucked into the corner,  

a detail only the painter knows is there.  

It’s the verse that wasn’t needed,  

but stayed anyway.  

 

In learning,  

it’s the teacher who lingers after the bell—  

a moment longer,  

just to see you understand.  

 

In kindness,  

it’s the smile, the patient pause,  

when the world might pass someone by.  

 

In care,  

it’s choosing the second blanket on a cold night,  

the last slice saved for someone else,  

the small, quiet gifts  

that never ask for thanks.  

 

A baker’s dozen  

is more than thirteen.  

It’s the measure of giving  

without counting.  

 

 

 

 

 

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