A small thing is a memory
the day to day smoothed
of its splinters
A tiny elephant
carved from mahogany
its wooden grace
A tea bag scented
with Bergamot or
the whorls of a marble
A paper clip bent just so,
and never moved since
the tearing of the pages
The low sung gong
of a tone coaxed
from a singing bowl
The smallest thing
becomes a song
that sings
on remembering
and rings
On, dividing
and dividing
By Reka Jellema & Brendan Bonsack
Copyright March 1, 2015