I do not concern myself with things
too marvelous for me.
I pull young buckthorn after the rain
and watch the cranesbill fill in,
tie a clover around my child's wrist
to stop her from crying after a fall.
I do not concern myself with matters
too great. I skim the article
once or twice--rebel fighters,
refugees, tankers billowing smoke.
Shall I say each time my eyes wander
to the blue stars of lilac tumbling
from a jar on the table,
that I love those lilacs more?
I will die being no help to this man
curled around a broken IV
on a floor in Sri Lanka.
I would like to sink into his stare
and pray him through his nightmares.
But first I lie in the grass
and bury my face in the great skirts
of the sky, making peace
with the carpenter ants and the other
small brilliances of my life.