Pleasure in small things
A poem about anxiety
this patch of moss, for example a quiet miniature jungle softly sponging under my playing finger the way that shoot emerges further each day from winter-worn nubs a blue tit clinging to brick outside my bedroom window, elongating to see me staring back, then gone in a blur of white and yellow my heart fluttering if I can just flit between these small things in life if I can just stop thinking