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The Sum of Small ThingsBy Charlene Langfur QuailBellMagazine.com Everything right is about what I can’t see, the big of the little, of seeds become sprouts while I am asleep, work in increments, light collecting, slim and luminent, and bold, I know that is what I am and am able to do, tracing patches of light on the floor, and more, streaks of it on the doors, picking what is comely out of the blue,
what sticks longest, the light and the morning and walking the dog past the palm trees, at a steady pace, my dog leaping on and off, all thirteen pounds of her and we’re moving together like an old couple does finishing each other’s sentences, syllables, phrases. The daily and the common, what rises off them, over them, the auras and the light of everything in sight, the break and staple of what sticks and stays, flowers opening, the silver quarters I’ve thrown in a porcelain dish to my bed for all of my life piling up and up. One iota after another of a day expanding, shrinking, the opal feathers of the roadrunner opening up into the sun, an exceptional sight in the middle of the ordinary, the passion of the little wren in the trumpet flowers, you can tell how gigantic all this is here, studying the flowers on another day, small flight making a go of it, deep living even in the midst of what is almost night CommentsComments are closed.
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