I don’t want to leave.
I have too much to do.
To listen to the earth grow its grass.
Who will tell how well it grows
if I leave?
Who will praise the small bud
developing carefully in the cold,
a silver silk covering its face?
Who will tell it how beautiful it is?
That it is welcome.
That spring will wash gold over its face,
and stars fill its eyes of satin whiteness.
Who will put the fledgling
back on its nest,
or uncover the door to the rabbits burrow,
or watch flying soar from the wings
of birds?
Who will watch water run over stones,
dawn peek like a child above its crib,
the moon be admired for her dress,
an old woman be followed with a prayer,
a poem be read
from a hand shaking with love.
Why must I notice these things,
put them in some book,
cover them with warmth,
pick them up,
put them down?
I don’t know,
except my heart refuses to leave them,
because the huge is small,
and I see
in the sweep of this small tenderness,
the great arms of the world.