The End Of The World

Savor this breath.
Plunge your nose into clover.
Honor the silence
beyond the spiral song
of the Swainson's Thrush.
Why not admit it?
The end of the world has
already come.
The dragonfly
has left its blade of grass
trembling in a sunbeam,
a new earth cupped
in the rain drop.
You could knit some stars
into the black veil of a lady bug's wing
with the needle of your attention.
Little deeds require a vast heart.
Do the infinitesimal.
Put the sky in your chest.
Heal the planet.