With One Glove

Writing
With on glove
It’s cold
Writing

Some creation between irrelevance
And forever,
Like life.

Some days it’s good to be mammal,
Especially with thumbs.

And yeah,
I always cross up to the long view,
The macro sight,
The large dreams.

Using little things,
Reminding large things,
Reminding God we’re here,
And Wondering.

And yeah,
Must not we see both at once?
Are not we God after all?
Small pieces of a bachelor’s dinner,
Made quick,
Eaten with napkins,
Imperfect yet…attempting.

Always tempting ourselves
With that moment of bliss,
A small divinity
On a warm, wet world,
Spinning alone in the empty cold.

With one glove