When all the world
is overwhelming—
war, rage, starvation,
political chaos—
screaming at me
from my phone
I invert my attention
to the small things before me—
the way raindrops fall
on birch leaves in the forest,
the lichen growing
on the side of a pine tree,
the small spring peeper,
crossing the path in front of me.
It too has a life,
so fragile like mine,
so crushable in an instant,
like the child who hungers,
like the leader who rages,
like the immigrant taken away,
like the driver on the highway
I flipped off for being a momentary jerk
before my gut twisted in shame.
Everything is connected,
to everything.
We are webbed together
across this green and blue globe—
the peeper crossing the path
in front of me,
the immigrant, the president,
the hungry child,
the rain on leaves—
sacred and fragile,
profound and profane.
Can we live
in the connection
that already connects us,
or will we continue
to curse and crush?