Naturally, something that calls itself small
wants little to do with attention. Geography
called small is a quiet gush of light, tides
that pool in small sand-banked reservoirs,
and discreet stands of pines, the trees
not small, but their conversations are.
Hush of seals, their heads rise out of small
waves to gaze at each other and walkers
on the beach. Small snaps of seaweed,
and here on this slender (small) point
of stone and sand, a peninsula, almost silent
but for small bird calls. And you, present
in your skin, and your skin, dry, and
the wind, dry, small. And you, John Marin,
driving small points in long strokes, water
in your paint, the sea in your here, now.
on John Marin’s “Small Point, Maine”
