More Than We Can Grasp

There is more here than can be grasped in two hands,
a world too large to throw our arms around.
Every thing—the lone cricket singing in the tall rye grass,
one falling feather, a single stripped bone—
contains everything else.
Each is a well into which we could fall.
Every day the world begs us to
stand face to face with its creatures.
This blade of grass, not the sea from which you pluck it,
this cone of clover, not the nine with which it sways,
this one bird, singing to you in the dead of night.