Little things grow large.
The heater of the old car
fails to warm.
A child is slow
to respond.
Sand endlessly threads
through a three-minute timer.
The hesitation
of birds to eat at the feeder
filled for them
thwarts the movement
of a day.
I shove a chair,
gouge the cutting board
by chopping onions
to fierce little bits.
Until a sparrow,
aimed at seed and sky,
comes to the end
of her universe
in the blue mirror
of our window glass.
I hold her
stilled in my hand,
ask that tenderness
and patience
be my new calling.
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