more oft these days I pray to the gods of smaller
things.
 
appreciation.  no cousin kin of want.
 
my cloud hand shadows the curving shell of a
snail in the bush beside my knee-high adjoining
bench.  is that a resistible kindness?
 
a small gesture by any measure.
 
how many raise clammer to violence when found
on a garden perch.  crush is so easy for us.  myself,
I find delight in another life close at hand.
 
what matter the size of the spoon?
 
root for the traverse of a shimmering thread
across their green & earthen universe.
 
no fear.  what fills the space?  welcome home.
 
and sometimes, yes,  leave nature to the
footsteps familiar to its own history.  some you
save.  some you let be.
 
 
 
from a balcony.  below a single white butterfly.
roam the yard once, maybe twice, then
out-of-sight.  repeating day then another day.
and only one, always seen alone.  never two.
is it the same white butterfly?  yet over many
days it makes no easy sense.  I don’t know.
 
today a white butterfly is across the street.
it circumnavigates that garden then proceeds
south down the street.
 
some answers are the common denominators.
here.  this thread needs no further story.
 
 
 
sunlight seems different now.  unafraid?
we wear masks to hide our faces in this
breeze.  even a glance now is courage kin.
 
maybe we are wrong.  maybe we’re meant
to share this given world.  maybe we’re not
the topmost top?  unwelcome news?
 
neighbors, companions, have we room that way?
 
 
notice how language is changing in our mouths.
there.  have you ever touched that word that way
before?
 
 
 
how is it that in my head thoughts underthought
keeps turning into kangaroo?
 
I’m unsure what isn’t a poem anymore.