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.
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