No heart too small that its every beat is not known, weighed and measured. Sunlight floods the room.
Morning light comes down through the cross patterned window.
Eyes half closed, in shade, I lift up my eyes to the cross shadowed morning. Brown brittle leaves Rustle on the walk Like ancient manuscripts. A child laughs. He chases down a sheaf And crushes it to dust. In late May, late afternoon, Amid patches of nervous sun, They tell us the galaxies couldn t care less About little nothings such as this.