The Smallest One, Or, A Catch

Tripped in the dark, you know,

a clumsy thing.

Bed frame. Right on the toe,

the little one. A sharp sting.

But then, just now,

I saw my hand.

And that finger, somehow,

standing out, on its own land.

It’s always there, you see,

doing nothing, or so it seems.

But try to grip, just three,

and watch it bend, fulfilling dreams

of balance, I suppose.

A little hook, a fragile guide.

So small, it knows

how to get hurt, nowhere to hide.