Deborah DeNicola

The Preponderance of the Small

The Chinese Book of Changes said. And now curious phenomena 
appear each time I forget where I am. Chanterelles 
suddenly circle the lawn as if to remind me of direction. 
The rain comes by, points to the crocuses' sorrow 
and how I am wearing the wrong shoes. Or in the kitchen 
a stray potato having fallen to the floor, cries out like a cat 
when I step on it. Pay attention to little things 
the horoscope said, and just yesterday, the toothpaste spewed 
an iridescent madonna, chartreuse sponge mold crept 
over the clementines onto the drapes. And when I bent 
to lace my boots, a cobweb like a cup of light dropped 
in my face. For a moment I saw the plant's ferned imprint 
in the window. One amber earring centered 
in the mandala of Persian rug. Licorice tea 
in a single rhomboid of sunlight, flying buttresses 
in the shafts of the rattan chair . . . All this breathing 
behind my back, an organic continuum 
under my nose. Acts of living, small
symphonies which tiptoe in my footsteps. 
High Mass in my home, 
the call to prayer.