-The Smallest of Things-
The smallest of things often measures the moment. An ants foraging ways, leaving a trail for others to follow; The lavender in my hands, a fragrant passing of distant sorrow... No longer felt beneath this sweet suns touch, the love, all that remains, amongst the memories of sadness and forgotten pains. Where does it come from, this soft invasion of life, love, seeping into each heart, taken altogether by surprise. I close my eyes, and feel you there, inside me, glowing strong.
I washed her feet, and turned around behind her, my hands cupped upon her delicate ankles, running along the lines of her tendons. In all these years i had never noticed the curve of her toes, the fragile lines of each nail interposed, time weathered attention, the artists measured hand, drawn across her skirt, girt with all the loving care she has born. A timeless sentinel of love, giving endlessly to all those she has gathered about her. So i spent a while loving her, washing her toes, cleaning the webs from off her sunken nose, her eyes fixed in repose. To love her is a joy, to know that she, for whom so many other souls employ, is loved, cared for, caressed and washed, cleansed from the sullying remnants of grime, the weathered matting's of time. To love one who loves so, is there any greater gift than this?
It is the smallest of things, the breath of a butterflies wings, passing between the still gap of an Angel's. The rustle of a leaf, the blossoming of a tree, left sallow and old, withered and cold, reborn in splendour, free. The blossom falling as snow upon the ground, each ripe fruit, plucked for the eating, the feeding of love.
It is the smallest of things, a smile, the gracious care... time given, the slow brush of silken hair... fingers slipped, one inside another, the soulful stare between each silent sated lover.
It is the smallest of things, that leaves the greatest footprint... The smallest of things, that often meant the most.
© Richard Michael Parker 2012
