Small God
 
A small god, but not unimportant. He
presides over the cut grass, the raked leaves,
the empty coffee cups. There was a time
when this god would be recognized – the folk
who saw him, knew him for himself. Today,
those people’s heads do not turn. Nobody
remarks on his comportment; and indeed,
outside, the cut grass scatters – the raked leaves
and coffee cups aren’t seen to. You might burn
him a small offering. You might begin
the path of wisdom. Frankly, any god
can fill that coffee cup. Can rake that leaf.
 
John Isbell
 
If you have any thoughts about this poem,  John Isbell would be pleased to hear them