The Small Abundances

The Nearness of What Matters

Not in the grand arrival, but the steam
that rises from a cup held close at dawn-
not in the answered prayer, but in the seam
of light that finds the floor when curtains yawn.

We spend our lives in hunger for the vast,
for meaning writ in thunder, carved in stone,
yet what remains when spectacle has passed
is bread broken, a hand that finds our own.

The philosophers were wrong to seek the sun;
the truth lives lower, in the moss, the seed,
in how a single evening, gently done,
can fill a life with more than lifetimes need.

Perhaps the soul grows not by reaching high,
but learning what was always standing by.

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