Dear God of Small Things
by Judy Ray
Every day I think of writing to you,
but you have many details to deal with
and my letter may be too small a thing.
I would thank you for the green and blue scent
of rosemary, for feathery cassia,
for sudden brief opulence of red-torch
cactus bloom. All these redeem the desert’s
harshness to one from another landscape.
I would write of the birdsongs that outsing
city traffic, a dog’s understanding
of routine, the bursting smiles of children.
And then I would ask if it is a small
enough thing for you to make a mirror
for us. It can be of purest silvered
glass or hammered tin or calm deep water,
and will reflect ourselves not as our selves
but as those others we strive to be,
outshining the shadow selves between.