Here I am, small as ever:

smaller than the smallest

blade of emerald or deep pine

or thinnest fringe of blue-

grey foliage edging the park—

A planet climbs the skies

to intercept the larger arc

of sun as though a hand pulled

back the string and tensed the bow:

so small though visible to the naked

eye, its progress through the ether.

And when it’s passed, at head

and nock of the arrow my small

heart trembles still: which is

kindness, which suffering?

The hand that tries to learn

is gesturing still: how all

things, restless, scintillate

—as in a dream.

 

In response to small stones NYC (101) (102).

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