Ode to Little Things

Let us now praise little voices

Barely heard, and then only in solitude,

Far from what is practicable.

The weak conjectures still-bom

Among the raucous laughter of normal people.

The timorous uncertainties that

Find no voice to express them

Among the roar of monolithic knowledge.

The premature idea unsure of itself

Takes tentative steps toward

The welcoming arms of Scylla and Charybdis.

Like a small bird falling

Perhaps to fly, wings flailing against hard-hearted earth. Like a ghost of love pitting itself against The engulfing silence of death.

Let us praise these little things.

Not with heralding tmmpets And ticker-tape parades.

But with the subdued quiet Of recognition.