The Quiet Engine

She rises with the breaking sun,
Before the world has yet begun.
In gentle hands, the day she holds—
A rhythm ancient, quiet, bold.

“Brush your teeth,” she softly sings,
“Wash your face, tuck in loose strings.
Tie your shoes, stand up tall,
Begin with care — it shapes it all.”

Breakfast simmers, warm and light,
She feeds their bodies, hearts, and might.
“No empty stomachs,” she will say,
“For strength and joy must lead your way.”

“Where’s my wallet? Keys? My phone?”
Each question meets her steady tone.
She answers not with scorn or sighs,
But grace that lifts and never dies.

She wipes the spills, she sweeps the floor,
She brings calm winds through every door.
In tidy rooms and brushed back hair,
She plants her love, beyond compare.

Not just order, not just meals—
She brings a life that truly heals.
A balance born from soul and art,
A home ignited by her heart.

No spotlight sought, no trophies won,
But she’s the thread — the quiet one.
Who teaches not with loud display,
But with her being, every day.

So if you ask what strength looks like,
It’s not just armor, war, or strike.
It’s in the hands that hold it all,
And never let the spirit fall.

That’s a woman, through and through—
The fire, the grace, the honest glue.
The one who shows us all the way—
In little things.
In every day