Small Things

What if the skimmer skates on the water,

his wake so slight nearly undisturbing,

the slug inches across the walk

a slim silver tracery trailing,

the bee tracks bits of pollen

from flower to flower,

leaving barely a footprint?

How important is the sperm

swimming to the egg,

grit in a mollusk shell

grating itself layers of opalescence,

or the cell imperceptible tatting over and over

its intricate schemes unseen?

What if a god is not too vast

to comprehend, but so infinitesimal,

the tiniest hands crocheting cell after cell,

beading the most elegant bag so small

we don't see it at all.