Vernal House

by Maurya Simon

Tiny minarets of dew balance on blade-tips.

A skeletal ant, pale as an opal, surely
bent on some urgent mission,
mistakes my finger for a bridge to somewhere.

Staggering under the press
of his unwieldy freight, the beetle stops
to unshoulder a pharaoh-faced moth.

All the little cries of light
glisten like icons in the darkest valleys,
where the bumblebees gather tears.

I want to hold and still the world.

Instead, I gaze at the butterfly’s delicate,
velvet wings, hinged as they are
to sadness, grazed with prisms,

and I bless what is small
and bewildered,
what shivers like jewels.

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