that you won’t aspire to flower
but prefer smallness meekness
until you don’t and then
assume a hawk’s demeanor
seizing upon that inner mouse
devouring his humility for lunch
with the ferocity of your smile
not one of satisfaction
or even of recognition
as you survey the inner
and outer landscapes
hawk-like mouse-like
but the will of the world
rising up through your feet
and the light of the stars
falling into your sleep
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