The Thinking Poet


Little Things

I touch the brown shell brightly burnished

Shining like a well-groomed chestnut mare.

Thereís naked wonder as I pick it from its prickly womb,

Its autumn resurrection tomb;

Such loveliness surprising.

There, fallen from a gilded tree pretending death,

It promises a potency for life.

Julian of Norwich,

Holding in the palm of her hand

A little thing the size of a hazelnut,

Marvelled and wondered:

What is this?

I share her moment; delight in her response:

"Because God loves it, it exists."

In this little thing she saw three truths:

God made it, God loves it, God sustains it.

Nut in hand I too marvel

And put myself in the palm of Godís hand,

Only half understanding,

Yet knowing that I, a little thing, am loved,

And that life spares such little time to love.