Insignificant (repost of an older poem)
You think small, but inside this house
you’re too much body, all elbows, knees
and hollow heart banging against hard walls.
So when the ache in his voice,
his words, echo inside your head
like discordant church-chimes in a winter blow,
you settle for these:
the looming tall of tree on tree,
blistered bark. A deepening shadow.
Such cloistered stillness. You can hear,
distinctly, the soft slip of your footfalls,
one following the next in illusion
of meaningful direction. There’s
no defined space where you belong,
nobody likely to happen by and smile
as if you matter – only a branching off
toward a thickening indifference.
Yet there’s something comforting
about this darkening canopy,
the way oak-woods lean close, sway
a whisper through old, leafy boughs,
something timeless, primeval and serene
that takes you in and rocks, rocks you tenderly,
until you’re lost and more lost to whatever was.