they say it's the small things

 



Sunday
afternoon

sitting at the center
market,

smoking,

taking it all
in

looking at the buildings
standing faithfully in their
Victorian pride

the storefronts closed,
napping,
resting up for Monday's
frenzy

birds flying from tree
to tree,
the trees indifferent to
all but the sun above

and there are no wars
to be fought on the
inside or outside of
my head

peace guilds languidly,
easily through these
streets like the breath
of angels

as the smoke from my
thin Italian cigar rises
up and gives chase to
the clouds

I understand

that it is the ant
tapping at our feet
for attention

and not the
universe in
it's vast, cold,
firey wonder
and fury

that can be the
miracle