Devotion

My body wakes at 2:40 am
every morning for water.
And when I try to fall back
asleep, I reach out.
And I find one of two people.
A daughter, more familiar than
my own beating heart.
A man, as bright and fiery as a
galactic collision, brand new.

For two years, all of the decisions were big.
Life changing, overwhelming multitudes
of different that defined this entirely new life.

And now, a settling is under skin.
A map to the way back of small things.
As I try to remember that simple
moments can stay in our bodies like blood –
deep and threaded to everything else.
A dotted line culminating in the buried
treasure only soul searching unearths.

But here is my problem.
Nothing is small anymore.
Not the coffee in the morning.
Not the pumpkin patch in the fall.
Not the afternoon cup of bone broth
or the bowl of noodles dressed in a
perfectly over easy egg.
Not the head on my shoulder during a movie.
Or the bike rides to the brewery or
the midnight glasses of champagne or
the poetry falling out of the mouths
of my dearest friends.
Feather soft and cannon ball
weight all at once.

It is all so big I could never contain it.
It is the entire gravitational pull of
the big red planets not yet named.
It is the canyons built by millions of years
of pushing and pushing upwards and
all of the sky that cradles them the
higher they climb for the moon.
Every moment so divine –
smallness is an insult.

Because once you make your
life into a canvas of the infinite –
there is nothing too large,
nothing too heavy to carry.
You decide to hold it all –
and then suddenly you see, that even
the smallest drop of water
is as holy as the entirety
of the zodiac ocean.