A Man for Small Spaces
I am a man for small spaces.
For me, the piazza
not Tien An Men
is where grace is.
Here may you sit
in dappled light,
while a small bird pecks
crumbs at your feet.
Sounds of the world
are muted here.
And time too passes
on slippered feet.
Here you will hear
the little sounds:
a rustle of leaves,
bees at their work,
the cheek of a bird
scolding a cat,
or a woman who
hums at her loom.
The child too knows
a still centre: a place
scaled to his pleasure,
mysterious.
Here would I lean back,
sip black coffee,
read yesterday’s news,
while shadows move,
and high up above
planes scratch lines
in the blue, blue sky,
going somewhere.
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