The blades of grass 
lean together 
when the breeze remembers their names. 
 
Wildflowers lift their faces 
without asking who is watching. 
They bloom because blooming 
is what they were made to do. 
 
Vanilla wanders ahead, 
nose to the earth, 
reading stories written 
in scents I cannot see. 
 
Every now and then 
he looks back, 
not to ask where we're going, 
but to make sure 
I'm still coming. 
 
The sun settles softly 
across his golden fur, 
and for one quiet moment 
the whole world feels enough. 
 
There is no hurry here. 
 
Only the whisper of leaves, 
the song of distant birds, 
and a faithful companion 
finding wonder 
in every blade of grass. 
 
Perhaps happiness 
has always been this simple— 
 
to walk beside someone you love, 
 
to notice the light, 
 
 

and to remember 

that even the smallest things 
are miracles 
when we are paying attention