Oh, what tiny ears you have


I’ve never before seen
such artistic beauty,
such elemental elegance
in minutiae, a landscape
worthy of yesterday and
hopeful of tomorrow,
the canyon walls smooth
as the ticking of time;
this first flower of being
created by generations,
the tool marks still evident
here and there, the tape
that held the tracing paper
still clinging to the window.
At night the smooth waves
caress the dark shoreline
with an aura of pristine awe,
the sensitivity of a cocoon
begging the passing wind
to keep its whispers low
lest the stars stand still,
straining with every ounce
to catch what we whisper
before turning out the light.



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