Little Things
Let me tell you about the word 'fate'.
Somewhere at some time, within the relative and infinite darkness
Of that which is Unknown,
There is the distinct possibility or imagining
Of you -- By the seldom spoken majesty of the seaside,
Noticing your toes effortlessly melt along with the sand
As each wave inevitably concludes some perilous journey made,
With a swan song symphony of crashes right at your feet,
Bidding farewell as ripples, a fading chant of their own epic tale.
Beneath the stars, as they cradle you with the light of their silent knowing,
You with the deep breath would then say,
"The earth is in continuous motion, we are but earth, we are in unison."
And the moon, pale and bright, lies there, still and amused by one's modest suggestion.
He would say "everything comes from little things.
Beneath your feet was once a wave that once sunk a ship in the open sea,
And before that, before such crest and trough, before ever reaching the shallow waters,
There was no such wave, but a tiny ripple made that alone pursued the ether,
Born from a singular disturbance somewhere, some time, irrelevant and unnoticed,
In the unchartered realm of possibility;
A skipped pebble from another shore, or some mariner's lonely tear dropped into the middle of the ocean."
Now, let me tell you about the word 'faith.'
There could be no pebble cast, and no tear shed,
Such things are meaningless... but these little things,
They are the mothers of everything, and for some
Reason of another, I am here,
Echoing out the few remaining verses of my tale.
And as to crashing beneath your feet and concluding myself here,
I will not say that I came from nowhere.
I will rest with my own silent knowing.
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