by John Grey
It’s blanched white tunnels
that tube-worms dig,
swirling around in complex patterns
like the trail of a child’s finger in cake frosting.
Or the emerald gleam of glowworms.
Or tiny scarlet and blue-jeweled crabs.
The world offers small
as much as it does large.
A lizard stares up at me from beneath a rock.
Its eyes are two black pinheads.
There’s a drowsy buzz
where dragonflies feed.
And blenny darters skirt
the limits of a pool,
feasting on midges.
Even the leaves for grass are in on the miniature.
A cricket pivots on one.
A second is free but blustered.
I am on my knees,
immersed in a world.
strong in detail
but thin on drama.
But then a bobolink
claims an unwitting fly.
I spoke too soon.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Sin Fronteras, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in Plainsongs, Willard and Maple and Connecticut River Review.
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