Watching quietly
from nearby stump,
bushtits, flit, at the edge
of the wood,
scattering if a leaf moves,
like precious feathered
fragments of light ~
“one” of many
tiny feathered dancers,
all look the same,
to those who never look,
to see beyond a name
all skittish of a giant’s
human kindnesses,
not all that different
than a large “one” feeling
insignificant and small…
hearing a bashful chatter,
whispering wonderments,
flocked together
“one” for all —
all for a greater good
sadly, the giant “one”
at the edge of the wood,
is the only lonely heart —
even the smallest
precious hearts know,
all need someone
to love and behold;
bestowing purpose,
as every humble
breath unfolds,
a need to just be,
a need to belong,
something to be,
more than “one” —
—the edge of the wood