The crows fly home as evening
spreads them like black dots
against the fading light
falling as darkness dwells
with stars in the night sky
reflecting so many points of
light our gazing eyes
are drawn to.
Upon the printed page
the music notes wait patient
their turn to sound those
mysterious marks, dots on
a page written
not unlike the Impressionist brush
dividing color into single dabs
across a vision on canvass.
All these small marks, even
those that divide words
into sentence and phrase,
symbol my life,
a single dot in history's
long and arduous way.
It is easy to be overwhelmed
by this reality
of small and finite being.
There is a sacred space
found hidden in the marks
deep on hands and feet
outstretched upon a cross
where I find refuge
and meaning
To the insignificance of this self.
