Sometimes I find
that my hands are too small

they cannot hold the world
the way the moon holds the tide.

Sometimes I find
my legs are too short

they cannot decide where to go
the way roots decide to reach and live.

And while I feel these things
lend themselves so my downfall,
I am proud that sometimes

I find my heart is too big

a beating in my ribs
that echos above all sense of reason.

And

sometimes I wonder if that beat
is enough to tell the world
I was here.