The Smallest Things

In the end
These poems.

Blue sky
Green leaves
Red clay soil

I wanted to
It was impossible
So I didn’t
But now I wish I had.

Spun struck
Words litter the ground.

There is always more
To take
Helping us forget.

We ask for love
To make us whole
Without giving ourselves.

Only trust those
Who when struck
Ring hollow.

Not mind makes experience
But experience makes mind
What then of self?

The deeper we go
The lighter it becomes

It is always
The smallest things


About Jamie Nicol

Living in the forested hills of Catalonia, overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. Zen teacher, recovering philosopher, small-scale natural farmer. Writing just what comes.
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