It is such
a tiny thing--
a whisper of a word in an idle mouth
upon first knowing,

a mustard seed of intent that grows
gradually and shapes human
as minute buds form
that may learn to hold
an apple or an idea;

a discerning eye for colors
washed between skylines
and memories, never judging
the greens for being
too green or not enough;

feet that may carry
to distant lands
one day, places
I'll never see
except in sent pictures
or postcards with foreign stamps;

an ear for music
favoring piccolos
and fiddles dancing through
a mind
hope keeps open.

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