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How small they can be—
A perfect thing.
A wet seed splitting, unfolding
Its green tongue;
a pink scar
Blending a red-torn knee.
A white beam through an eye,
off a hill of sand,
from a star:
Close and brief; right here, then gone;
Unstoppable on its right day
and built just to die.
You know what I love—really love—about you?
When we play, that feeling:
total, and simple-right,
Like all the soul-virtues that faithful
rituals chase ( with a hymnal tone, in a common prayer)
Spill freshly from where we touch;
pure light.
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