Small Things

It usually starts taking shape

from one word

reveals itself in one smile

sometimes in the blue glint of eyeglasses

in a trampled daisy

in a splash of light on a path

in quivering carrot leaves

in a bunch of parsley

It comes from laundry hung on a balcony

from hands thrust into dough

It seeps through closed eyelids

as through the prison wall of things of objects

of faces of landscapes

It’s when you slice bread

when you pour out some tea

It comes from a broom from a shopping bag

from peeling new potatoes

from a drop of blood from the prick of a needle

when making panties for a child

or sewing a button on a husband’s burial shirt

It comes out of toil out of care

out of immense fatigue in the evening

our of a tear wiped away

out of a prayer broken off in mid-word by sleep

It’s not from the grand

but from every tiny thing

that it grows enormous

as if Someone was building Eternity

as a swallow its nest

out of clumps of moments