A Choice of Weapons
And when it is dark, you turn your eyes
to the small things.
A snail clinging to life, waiting or the next dew.
A cat purring and warm on your lap.
The next cup of coffee. And the next.
You change how you see, a soul
in need of peace the stormy horizon denies you.
And so you focus on the small, always beautiful,
too often missed, gifts.
The green of her eyes.
The smell of wood smoke in the distance.
The warm grain of antique wood on your desk.
Old shoes that fit invisibly on your feet.
Tiny things. A place to focus your broken spirit.
Reminders. Shields against the demons.
Powerful things, but only when wielded like a delicate sword
against the blackness that threatens you.
A single tree silhouetted against the sunset.
The smokey taste of bacon.
Photographs of your children.
The smiles of strangers. An army arrayed.
As powerful or as weak as you choose.
About this poem
When I first entered therapy, in the darkest of dark places, my therapist proscribed scripture, and the constant, conscious focus on the small, good things in my life. What a difference those small things have made. The power of noticing is beyond anything we understand.