13 Words and a Gesture

Sitting in an unlikely place—

voices rising, hands trading,

argument layered over routine.

A motorbike passes,

dust lifting, then settling.

An old man steps close.

A smile.

A pause.

Soak up the sun while we have it,

before the cold sets in.

Thirteen words.

A gesture.

Enough to shift the day.

I know he has known cold—

ground moving beneath his feet,

winds that do not ask permission,

things lost and not recovered.

Still, he offers nothing heavy.

Only warmth,

shared while it lasts.

Thirteen words.

A gesture.

Nothing added.

Nothing taken.