Song of The Everyday

I sing the body electric—
not the polished, shining thing,
but the rough, the raw,
the dirt under the fingernails,
the sweat on the brow.

In these streets,
each footfall echoing
with the pulse of the city—
man and woman,
child and elder,
lovers and strangers
all woven into the same thrum
of breath and beat and bone.

Who am I but this dust
clinging to skin?
Who are you but the same
flesh and sinew,
tender, aching,
wrapped in your own story?

O! celebrate the ordinary,
the sacred sprawl of the everyday—
the hammer striking the nail,
the laugh, sudden and free,
the silent, steady gaze
of the sun as it dips
behind buildings that tremble
with the weight of us all.

Let me stand in the middle of it—
arms wide,
mouth full of names
we forget to say,
heart open to every step,
every breath,
every broken thing
that makes this life
so utterly alive.