eye is an ocean, a book not fully read.
tree whispers sermons down its roots
dirt is a pocket where the living host the dead
and microscopic soldiers scuffle boots.
dew is a solstice storm, a morning waking vibrant
the earth is cool, its stories warm, the dire of men its hydrant.
and work is done in tiny places which humble the giant sky
and no one notices the elephant races, when under critters cry.
i tell you nothing’s small one bit, not when the eye can travel.
For size is just a dull man’s sprit, til all earth’s sails unravel.
