small things

Filling a glass with water, squeezing tiny drops of vivid diffusion.

Almost losing color until you hold the glass to the light and feel tinted inside your glazing elixir.

You scale the back fence, overlooking ivy running wild — swallowing the uninhabited lot next door.

There are other worlds where caterpillars gnaw holes in green buckets sailing on an ocean of leaves.

This is your journey of metamorphosis.

But you cannot stop in time to save the grey butterfly, taking a last sip of nectar.

Running through the long summer grass, sandals slapping clover.

This is the season you learn small things can crush you into powdered silver wings beneath the heels of your thunder.