The Little Things

Hand me a simple key,
old, antique
and I will read into it
all the lifetimes
of keys that I never held

but were dangled,
tangled
in and around me
like some mystery
I would never escape
or was never meant
to solve.

Unspoken, unopened,
the door
is mine
to test.

I am
without words
and with language
that needs no words.

Here,
in this kingdom
full of joy
that looks like
an opening 
to kindness,
is filled with
the little things.

Each door
an opening,
a thimble or a seed,
a thread or a single drop of liquid
melting on the skin of a cheek,
an entrance to dialogue
where the tumblers
of the lock
click and clatter
into place
making sense
of everything.

Making
sense
of
every
thing.