Such a small water in the big scope
of things. Just a pond,
but on its face it holds the whole
sky, alive with the changing
colors of the day.

My hands are small. I lean
low, hands as deep as I can
make them, cupped,
pressed tightly, but very little
water holds, little stays; the sky
leaves along the little rivulet wrinkles
of my palm, down and out.
One hundred thousand
handfuls are not even half
a pond.

My hands are small,
holding almost nothing in the end,
but the sky trembles
on every muddy shore.

moves and removes