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There is a corner of the world

that no headline can reach.

A quiet garden —

in her heart

not big, not grand,

just enough space for sunlight

to spill across thyme and marigold.

The air smells of warm earth and crushed mint.

A bee forgets the war and dives into a blossom.

A snail writes a secret poem on a stone.

Here, time has a different rhythm.

Not the frantic ticking of urgency,

but the slow breath of leaves

turning toward light

again and again

with no fear, no doubt.

Someone sits there,

bare feet in the soil,

holding a book that isn’t urgent,

wearing a silence that isn’t empty.

She sips something fragrant.

She doesn’t check the news.

Not because she’s blind to sorrow,

but because she needs to remember

how peace feels

in the body.

This is not escape.

This is preservation.

A tiny rebellion —

to still notice the jasmine,

to still believe in small joys,

to still trust in the healing of soft things.

The world may burn.

But somewhere,

the light still falls.