Between boulders and their babies, I am both small and tall.

And, to the universe, we are each exiguous elements.

Neither a plate’s pea nor a haversack’s oat nor an Earth’s rock nor an egg’s evolution matters much to a mind set on mass and quantity.

If minus one merits no notice, does the subtracted still leave with purpose?

Or, like freckles on a face, is each building block or broken shard not so much feckless and easily forgotten as critical to character?

I value both that which falls between my fingers and that which can only be palmed in a patch.

So, while handsels lie in pocket or rest on nightstand, these hands will welcome every luck and trial of experiences both towering and trivial. ; )