In One and the Same Moment

“I am small in the rain.” ~ Eugene Gloria

We are all small in the rain;
we are even small in the sunlight,
though the shadows might grant the brief
illusion that we are taller or more brave

than we really are. And we can be small
at dusk, especially at dusk; smaller,
certainly, than in the early morning
when there is that sensation that we

are somehow taller, taking the first
sip of water or coffee, or sliding
into the car behind the wheel. Not only
are we small, returning in the morass

of traffic, or holding on to a strap
in the middle of the lurching bus
or train— also, we are flattened,
hollowed out, or pleated with

nervous anxiety; so that the howl
of the accelerating vehicle passes
like a blade across our bones,
and the drops of actual rain

pelting the windowpane border
on something that can be equal
parts tenderness and sorrow,
or simultaneous regret and

sweet nostalgia. Things live
like this in one and the same
moment, the large sometimes
in the small, the small more

rarely, but brilliantly, filling up
the inside of a room; the chest expanding
with the sudden intake of breath, the cupped
palm curled around a tiny, wavering flame.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.