It’s the small things, isn’t it?
The delicate, embroidered daisies
on the sash-ends of her Sunday yellow dress,
the honest dirt under his fingernails,
the small pink whorl of a baby’s ear.
What of the worm tunneling the soil,
the flight of the barn swallow,
the draining green in autumn
that shows a leaf’s true color?
There should be reverence for the buttercup,
the flash of sunlight on the rippling pond,
the call of the whippoorwill in the pulsing dark.
Whether man made the Sunday gods
to blame or revere matters little,
for even without the whole living, breathing mass
of us to notice them, the little things
would fill the empty spaces.