Featured Poems from A Thousand Moments

A small glimpse into the collection

A Thousand Moments is a hygge poetry collection about love, memory, tenderness, healing, family, nature, and the quiet beauty of ordinary life. These selected poems and excerpts offer a first glimpse into the world of the book - soft, intimate moments for those who feel deeply, remember quietly, and find meaning in the small things.

For those who find love in the small gestures

The poem "All Small Things"

It was never

the grand gestures

that stayed.

It was the orange

you peeled

at the kitchen table

because I had said

I was not hungry

and you knew

that was not

entirely true.

You rolled it first

under your palm

to loosen

the skin,

slowly,

with the patience

you gave

to small things

when no one

was watching.

The peel broke

under your thumb,

bright scent

rising at once,

sharp,

clean,

almost too much

for the quiet

of the room.

You pulled it away

in uneven pieces

and placed them

on the edge

of your plate,

careful

not to let the juice

run across

the table.

I watched

your hands

separate

the fruit

along the pale lines

it already carried

inside itself.

One segment

came loose.

Then another.

You removed

the white thread

from the middle

and laid it aside

as if even bitterness

deserved

to be taken out gently.

Then you placed

half the orange

beside my cup.

You did not say

eat.

You did not say

I know you.

You only pushed

the plate

a little closer

and reached

for the next segment,

your thumb

still shining

with juice.

For those who know love without needing to say it

Excerpt from the poem "Declared"

You reached

for my hand

outside the bakery,

where everyone

from the street

seemed to be waiting

for bread.

Until then,

we had been careful.

Separate steps.

Quiet looks.

Names spoken

as if the room

might overhear

too much.

Then your fingers

found mine

beside the stack

of empty crates,

plainly,

in the morning light.

Nothing stopped

to witness us.

Still,

my whole hand

changed.

Palm.

Knuckle.

The small place

where your thumb

rested

as if it had

always known

how to arrive.

When we reached

the counter,

you did not let go

to point

at what you wanted.

You only lifted

our joined hands

slightly

and said,

two loaves,

please.

For those who know love shows up in the rain

Excerpt from the poem "You, Me, and the Rain"

Rain found us

halfway home

from the market.

One bag

in each hand,

bread at the top,

parsley

falling out

like a small green flag.

You held

the eggs

under your coat.

I carried

the tomatoes

against my chest,

as if either of us

could save dinner

from the weather.

Then you laughed first.

The kind of laugh

that bends the body

forward

and makes people

look out

from warm windows.

By the time

we reached the door,

the bread

had softened,

the parsley

had stuck

to your sleeve,

and the eggs

were still whole

inside your coat.

You stood

on the mat,

dripping

onto the tiles,

and held them out

with both hands,

as proudly

as if you had carried

treasure

through a storm.

For those who know the ache of a dream carried alone

Excerpt from the poem "The Boy and The Guitar"

No one

was waiting

to hear him.

That was not

the point.

He sat

on the low wall

near the river,

where the water

moved slowly

under a skin

of oil and light.

Still,

he played.

He sang

because the town

had taught him

what silence

could become

if left alone

too long.

He sang

for the love

that had not

loved him back,

for the room

where he had waited,

for the message

that never arrived,

for the small humiliation

of hoping

with your whole body.

Not louder.

Not braver.

Only still there,

with the guitar

against his ribs,

one chord

finding another

in the rusted light.

For those who know love lives in the listening

Excerpt from the poem "I Can Talk to You for Hours"

I can talk to you

for hours

about the smallest things.

The neighbour

who waters

the same dead plant

every morning.

The woman

at the bus stop

with the red gloves

and the serious dog.

The price of cherries.

The strange mark

on the ceiling

that looks different

depending on

where you stand.

You listen

as if none of it

is wasted.

The clock

moves past midnight.

The tea

goes cold

beside us.

You turn the cup

slowly

by its handle,

then look up

as if I have

just arrived

at the part

you were waiting for.

For those carrying someone's absence

Excerpt from the poem "Nobody"

Nobody saw me

move your chair

back to the table.

It had been

turned slightly

toward the window,

as if you

had only stood up

to check the rain

and would return

before the soup

cooled.

The cushion

held a shallow place

where your body

had been.

Nobody saw me

stand there

beside the chair,

one hand

on the wooden back,

waiting

for the room

to tell me

what to do

with all the space

you had left.

In the end,

I pushed it in

slowly.

The legs

scraped once

across the floor.

Then the table

looked tidy,

which somehow

made it worse.

For those who love someone quietly, across time

Excerpt from the poem "My Father's Eyes"

I noticed it first

at the kitchen table,

a Sunday in winter,

the light coming in

at the angle

that asks nothing

of anyone.

He was reading.

Or trying to.

The page

kept needing

to be held

a little further away.

I watched his eyes

move across the words,

slower than before,

with the careful effort

of someone

crossing ground

they are no longer sure of.

I had seen those eyes

my whole life.

In photographs.

In mirrors.

Looking up

when I entered a room

as if my arrival

was still,

after all this time,

something

worth interrupting

a thought for.

I did not say anything.

I went back

to my cup.

Outside,

a bird crossed

the white garden

and disappeared.

There are things

we understand

only after

we have already

understood them.

The knowledge

arrives first.

The feeling

catches up later,

quietly,

in an ordinary room,

on a Sunday,

while someone you love

is simply

trying to read.

For those learning what healing actually looks like

Excerpt from the poem "How to Mend a Broken Heart"

I started

with the button

that had come loose

from my winter coat.

It had been hanging

by one thread

for days,

knocking softly

against the fabric

whenever I walked.

Then one morning,

it fell

into my hand

as I was leaving.

Small,

black,

almost weightless.

I stood

in the hallway

with my keys

in my other hand

and cried

harder

than the button

deserved.

The first stitch

went badly.

The second

held.

By the fourth,

my hands

remembered

what to do

better

than my heart did.

I did not mend

the whole coat.

Only one button.

Only one small place

where something

had come loose.

But when I wore it

again,

the coat closed

properly

over my chest,

and I went outside

into the cold

wearing something

I had mended

with my own hands.

For those learning to let go

The poem "The Watcher of the Tides"

The tide does not hurry.

It moves with the pull

of unseen forces,

a rhythm older

than memory.

It reaches the shore,

sure and patient,

then retreats

into the vastness,

carrying what the deep

has whispered.

He stands at the edge,

bare feet sinking

into the cool sand,

eyes fixed on the horizon

where sea and sky

blur into one.

The tide does not pause

for him.

It comes and goes,

a steady breath

that cannot be held.

Each wave tells a story:

of distant storms,

of ships lost and found,

of the moon's quiet pull

on restless water.

Yet none of these stories

belong to him.

He is only a witness,

a speck on the shore,

small against

the endless blue.

And as the tide

recedes once more,

the ocean speaks

in its ancient voice:

What will you let go of,

so you can move

as freely as I do?

He does not answer.

The tide returns.

The waves remain unbroken.

And the ocean continues

as it always has,

as it always will.

You can read more about the story behind the book here.

If these lines speak to something in you, the full collection is waiting.

Find A Thousand Moments on Amazon