oh, how i am small

oh, how i am small.

with fingertips that can’t lace across the wide expanse of the sun. feet that can’t jump from lush mountain to verdurous hilltop. these hands should stop the riptides that pull against our shores, control the budding flames of dry forest,

but they can’t.

i could be more, but these puny fingers can barely grasp the lowest of branches. how can i matter if my every step does not cause a quake?

my thoughts consume my soul, even more so in moments of passive silence. my head falls just barely under the cover of the trees. my hands manage to count the leaves blowing in the wind.

i suppose that if i were larger than life, the only shade would be my shadow. if my stance were wide and dark, would i leave the earth dry and arid?

what would be the point of titanic poise if each leap from dilapidated hilltop only lands me at desolate mountaintops?

i would prefer delicate fingertips to those of destruction. for what could i truly do if my every breath created hurricanes, or my tears began flooding vegetation?

maybe this small stature is for the best.

posted 21.4.2025