Don't be scared, it's just a little bit.

There's no argument to follow.

None of the nausea of lowering yourself into the steaming swimming lane of someone else's thought -- no setting or character to learn and care for, no wrenching gymnastics of rhyme or rhythm -- because each little bit is just so little. A bit, a breath.

In housekeeping terms, this is picking three small pieces of orange peel up off the kitchen counter, not scrubbing out the bathtub.

In terms of a friendship, this is "Hi how are you!?" and a one-handed wave as you walk past too quickly to stop and say more.

In terms of a love relationship, this is a series of pecks on the cheek.

In terms of weather, this is one round lumpy snowflake drifting almost horizontally, looking as if it knows exactly where it's going -- followed at intervals by four or five more snow loners before you make it to the mailbox, toss in your letters and turn your back to the wind.

In terms of food, this is one olive, or one grape.

I'll seduce you with little sips.

Each line is just a line, so brief, you don't need to wait until you have the time to read....

And you might not even notice, in the end, that you had to do the work: twisting the fibers together, much more pulling on your thought than if I handed you a whole and smoothly knitted paragraph.

(This piece was inspired by Czeslaw Milosz's introduction to Joanna Trzeciak's wonderful translation of Wislawa Szymborska's poetry, Miracle Fair (W. W. Norton, 2001) -- turn off your computer now and go read it.)

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