Woe be unto them who disdain to humble themselves willingly
with little children; because the low gate of the Kingdom of Heaven
will not give them entrance.
—Thomas À Kempis, The Imitation of Christ 
Photo: Peter Hochheim |
Who needs the stuff from the top shelf of anything?
Who wants to drag the stupid step stool out
one more time? Keep all that’s best and precious
in the bottom of the closet, a nested corner, blankets,
teddys, cars, the doll and all her clothes,
a cup of grape juice and a plate of crackers.
All you need is down there, knee high,
forest floor high, where all the leaves fall anyway,
when they’re reddest and goldest and crispiest;
snowman high, sled high, high as a lap, as the space
under a glittering tree, as a lamb and a hungry donkey
and the box beside them with the hay in it;
tidepool high, with all the little crabs
who pinch your finger but it doesn’t hurt,
high as your toes with black sand squished between them,
as the seaweed, shining the best green in the sunlight,
as beach glass blue and white, that you can hold
as hard as you can and it will never cut you;
park bench high, grass high, dandelion high,
high as the gravel path, the teeter-totter, the swings,
the slide you can climb to through its perfect little door,
no higher than the big hand let down for you to hold.
Diane Tucker is author of God on His Haunches, a book of poems. She lives in Burnaby, B.C.
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