August 19, 2015

Were the world right, we would seek beauty in the smallest of things; hummingbirds sparkling in sunlight, or skin-smooth sea glass redolent on sand like kings.

No, instead those tiny things we walk mightily through as if vapors.

I was also one crashing through life until that summer day when I met you.

You didn’t radiate like the sun.

Dry and cracked were your lips like coral undone.

You barely rose, but instead lifted your head you did, just enough to touch eyes and insert your plea, you, the smallest bundle of raggedy fur in the room, turning your face toward mine to say, “Et tu?”

And doing so, chose me did you.

Shall I compare thee to summer? No.

You are constant. And steady you remain.

You do not thunder or bright blaze.

You are in my heart, eye to eye, every single day.

Together, we know evening jasmine, and tiny coquina shells hiding in the tide.

We know every seed and insect waiting to hitch a ride.

We know the joy of our small things, morning crispness, evening dew. We know the reason I’m changed at all is that summer day I met you. My little you.