He had a little life with little plans and little room for wanting.
He lived in a tiny house with a tiny yard with a tiny pouch and awning.
The world's concerns were not concerns he found himself concerned with
but more the past; history's past and stories that have passed into myth.
and so the days would go until the moon hung low and glowing.
But this man had a gift his friends found quiet swift, that could lift any dark soul-
he could find that which was enschrined and oftentimes resigned as a whole
to being unseen, hidden between the bitter routine of any old day.
Deep in the glen between the old hard men who are once again in the way-
in short he could support and cavort over the gargantuan in small things.
The splendor on rooftops- the fear of the drop does not stop his climb-
the thrill of a walk, even just down the block, free from the clock, on no one's dime-
holding tight to a hand, the hum of the band as you cross the sand together-
a very green leaf, conversations kept brief, the warmth of relief in any kind of weather.
And all of these things often grew wings with no tough, harsh strings,
and his small life was not so small after all.
I know this is super late, I've got to catch up!