small things hide in You;the things that are not revered
though they were created some of them at least
on the First Day.
creeping things get in the way even of the ferns.
but I discern on any random summer evening
snail tracks on the moon all made of silver.
wings of a fine rust.
on earth they must they take shelter how they can under a broadleaf in a rain puddle.
and have wistful dreams of one day living in another phyla,
kingdom where the kind and storybook princess arrives
in her nutshell carriage striped gold
and gives them favour.
I weep for small things
in their desertions. for how they get swept down drain pipes
tin soldiers on their way with a tiny kind of valour
that flickers like the flame of a lost thing too all suddenly firefly
floating fleeting in a foreign neighborhood with no echo home
when I am lost in the woods myself so far
far from the stone cutter's cottage.
mary angela douglas `15 august 2020
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