little things

little branches bending shy
never catch a logger’s eye,
invisible to passersby,
they willingly for winter die,
hanging crystal chandeliers.

little brooks vibrant play,
echo like a lover’s letter,
busy splashing out their thanks,
carving paths ‘neath muskrat banks.

little black-capped chickadees,
flit and forage limb to shadow,
spread the coming springtime seeds,
chiming gossip through the trees.

little mice ‘neath carpet huddle,
feasting on their autumn store,
divined long coming of the cold,
as paleozoic once more unfolds.

little salamanders long asleep
'neath frozen logs in silent
pre-cambrian dreaming core,
dancing on a neuron floor.

little things, little things,
platonic gifts and nibblings
as lovingly their beauty brings
the tiny chorus of nature sings
and to their source of life he clings,
but never hears their song.

by les blough,  garrett woods, new hampshire november 10, 2000

More poetry by Les Blough