small things

You gather geraniums,
crushing purple petals
between five-year-old fingers.

Filling a glass with water,
squeezing tiny drops
of vivid diffusion.

Almost losing color
until you hold the glass
to the light
and feel tinted inside
your glazing elixir.

You scale the back fence,
overlooking ivy
running wild
— swallowing
the uninhabited lot
next door.

There are
other worlds
where caterpillars
gnaw holes
in green buckets
sailing on an ocean
of leaves.

This is your journey
of metamorphosis.

But you cannot stop in time
to save the grey butterfly,
taking a last sip of nectar.

Running through the long summer grass,
sandals slapping clover.

This is the season you learn
small things can crush you
into powdered silver wings
beneath the heels of your thunder.