The tiniest of aviators,
scarcely more than a bumblebee,
darts fast now and frantic
between the beams and oil cans,
the stacks of boxes, racks of tools.
The double garage door gapes open
against the day,
the sun and sky and trees
beckon, there in plain view.
Yet the tiny creature lights
on an overhead beam
above my head.
Stares down
imploring,
tiny iridescent chest
rises and falls
with the exhaustion of fear.
Only then, as I draw a ladder
up underneath,
there shines acceptance
in those pin prick eyes,
and understanding.
I raise a gentle hand
and he,
tiny and defenseless,
taught by nature
to fear everything,
lights in my palm,
his body no bigger than my thumb,
heart beating like a blur
against my skin.
I feel his warmth,
lift him down, step outside,
thrust my hand skyward
into the day,
his joyous ascent
my offering,
his spinning cavort
a new beginning.
1 Comment
Love this poem.