full of gnats, mites, and, of course, my take on those "crickety-looking things" forever chirping around us . . . .
-- Suzanne
_________________________________________________________________________________
Witness
Lately
I’ve slowed the speeding day
by fixing my gaze
on the smallest
things:
gnats the shape of an eyelash,
mites minute
as grains
of salt.
Tonight
it’s a crickety-looking thing.
Bent legged.
Pale-green translucent
wings. No larger than
a crumb
of morning toast, & too near
the drain where I brush
my teeth.
I’m a fool
for tiny lives — admiring
their silence. I’ve
borne them
away from daily harm
on
paper scraps
slid
under wings,
crushing
them,
at times,
with well-meant
kindness . . . before making it
clumsily
down the steps,
& out
to the garden
where I try to place them
on something
green.
Like this one
that seems too
slight
to survive my
touch,
& I can’t stand here
all night long!
So into the kitchen,
rinse & spit,
then back again
for one last look.
It’s
gone.
Oh tiny
breathing thing,
godspeed!
I really
meant to save
myself
& don’t, for certain, know
from what. But you?
If you’ve
dared to hop
or creep
or flit
into another
night, I’ll
trust my own small life
once more to dark
& sleep.________________________________________________________________________________
