“THE LITTLE THINGS”

I stepped on a baby
bird.
It didn't make a sound.
I wouldn't have even
noticed,
but I was
barefoot on the lawn.

I tend to like
the little things.
I tend to love
all that's small.
I tend to fall for
everything
I don't notice
until it's gone.

Too late to watch the step I took.
Too late to take it back.
Too late to look down more merrily.
Too late for all that's small.

A song unsung,
wings not flown,
lives not lived,
and so it goes.

Underfoot,
I feel it soft.
Grassy dew
on
frozen toe.

It's the little things
I love; the same I have
lost.

narrative poem written on 10-18-2014 by: on mattkane.com
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