Little Finger

Stubbed my toe in the dark, a yelp

that swallowed every other sound.

And then, my pinky finger, it began to curl.

Just that little one, the useless bit,

at the edge of my hand, dry and chapped.

It folded in, as if to say,

'I feel your pain, in my own small way.'

A mirror of the one that hurt,

this tiny digit, easily girt.

So insignificant, and yet,

it held a comfort, no regret.

It’s always there, a tiny guard,

against the world, or else, just hard.

To feel so small, and yet to be,

a part of this, the whole of me.