Not Much

When the old man in his forest cottage stirs honey in his tea, he is whisking the earth around the sun. When the mother is up at 4 a.m. rocking her sick baby, she is rocks the planet very gently on its axis. That moth you met on the mountain last summer, settling blue wings on a lupine, fanned the air just enough to bring snow this Winter, a promise of thistle blossoms in Spring. Now it is morning, time you bowed down to this ancient breath. The world is not saved by much doing.

Image: St. Seraphim of Sarav