like the conch that fits in my palm,
into which the ocean longs to leap
like the flame at the end of a match,
the second before it swallows a forest
like the pollen of a sunflower,
powdery dust that blossoms into a field
like a grain of sand pressed into a footprint,
along an endless shoreline
like the snowflake at the end of a branch,
gathering courage to melt into the river
like this tear drop in the corner of my eye
that holds the weight of your passing.
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Little things that hold big things
Little things that are part of big things
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