Thanksgiving has a way of slowing life down just enough for us to notice the beauty in the little things, the laughter that drifts across the room, the comfort of a familiar dish, the quiet moments that remind us we’re not alone.
I’m especially grateful for the people who bring light into my life, those who check in, share a story, lend a hand, or simply show up in the small, steady ways that matter more than they know. Whether your table is full, your home is peaceful and quiet, or your celebration looks a bit different this year, I hope you feel surrounded by warmth, kindness, and a sense of belonging.
Thanksgiving isn’t about perfection; it’s about presence. It’s that soft moment when you look around and think, “This is enough. This is good.” And it truly is.
Wishing you a day filled with comfort, gratitude, and the simple joys that make your heart feel full.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Love,
Jennifer ❤️
Tag Archives: love
Unpromised
we move through hours
that were never promised
soft tenants of a world
that keeps no names
each breath is an ember of light
slipped into our unready hands
dawn on loan, shadows rented
still we press our footsteps into dust
still we dare to lift our fragile flame
as if the dark were negotiable
as if borrowed time
were ours to spend
and if the sun won’t one day
ask for everything back
Untamed
daydreams drift
like sunlight through water
soft
weightless
untamed
they blur the edges of reality
painting what could be
in colors the waking world forgets
for a moment
we live between breaths
where hope feels effortless
and everything feels possible
Ordinary
daydreaming is the art
of slipping quietly
through the cracks of the ordinary
a soft surrender
against the ticking clock
the mind drifts
painting sunlight
on impossible skies
letting clouds speak
in forgotten languages
somewhere between
breath and blur
the world loosens its grip
and for a moment
everything that could be
is almost real enough to touch
Unwritten
I am the breath
between the lines
not the hand that writes
the poet reaches for me
but I slip through their grasp
a shadow they cannot name
a pulse that does not wait
I am the thought
before it forms
the silence after it fades
the pause that lingers
between what’s spoken
and what’s felt
a ripple in the air long after
the words have settled
I am the poem
unspoken
unwritten
and still
Seasons change
I miss you
in the quiet moments
no one else can see
folded into morning light
and woven through
the hush between words
the world spins
but I feel your absence
like a thread
tugging at the edges of my day
fragile yet constant
a quiet ache that never quite fades
I miss you in the way
the light hits the window
the way the air shifts
when the seasons change
and I am reminded
time moves but you still live
in the corners of my heart
Gravity
I counted the light-years
between your voice
and the silence that followed
even the constellations
turned their backs
as if the sky itself
could not bear witness
but a star collapsed in my chest
gravity is a stranger now
and I am learning how to stand
in a room made only of your absence
The waiting
an old tree stands
a cathedral of branches
draped in emerald lace
the sun is a hidden jewel
that bleeds through the moss
casting long shadows
across the empty pews
they wait patiently
rows of silent sentinels
for a story to begin
or perhaps one to end
beneath the silent blessing
of this ancient witness
a still pond reflects a beautiful sky
holding the breath of the moment
a promise hanging
in the quiet air
the grass glows
a whispered secret
of what’s to come
and what has already been
Home
love is not a promise
it is the flame
that keeps no oath
yet burns faithfully
it arrives quiet
uninvited
carving silence into song
no map
no anchor
just two hearts
braving the tide
calling it home
Memorized
I know every line on your face
like verses from a sacred book
each crease a chapter
each freckle a footnote
the ones by your eyes
tell stories of laughter
the ones near your mouth
of quiet resolve
I’ve traced them in silence
in light and shadow
memorized them in morning stillness
and twilight hush
they don’t speak of age
they speak of time lived
love weathered
and truths too deep for words
The Creative Chic 