To see a need—
a child’s bare foot on frost-bit stone,
a widow’s lamp guttering low—
and meet it,
not with heralds or hammered brass,
but with the hush of bread broken in back rooms,
coins slipped through cracked doors,
bandages knotted in the dark.

No trumpet.
Only the soft click of a latch
behind the giver who vanishes
before the given can name the gift.

This is the grammar of God’s hands:
verbs without subjects,
sentences that end in silence.
The wound closes.
The hunger forgets its own shape.
The world turns,
and no one marks the pivot
except the One who keeps
a ledger of mercies
written in disappearing ink.

Be that ink.
Be that pivot.
Be the quiet clause
in the long sentence of grace.