But...After hearing my prose read at Bloomington Art Center... and having the gentleman next to me lean over with program in hand and say, "Can I have your autograph?" I realize...it's just a shift in prospective. Enjoy.
A Little Water
"How little is water?" My son asked sitting in a bathtub filled with plastic boats.
"It's as small as rain,” I explained.
"Pouring from the sky in a thunderstorm." His voice boomed as his feet turned the tepid bath water into crashing waves, sinking half his fleet.
Shaking my head like a dog emerging from a lake. "As small as a raindrop in a gentle spring shower, clinging to a shiny green leaf--"
“Eaten by a big fat green caterpillar that gulps down all the leaves before crashing down to the ground.” His palm smacked the surface sending a spray of water.
Eyebrows popped up like umbrellas, hands flayed like windshield wipers, but still I got wet. “As small as a tear from an orange monarch--”
“Butterfly stuck to a claw of an angry bear.” His arms and hands thrashed. “The bear can’t shake the honey or the butterfly off his paw. The harder he tries, the madder he gets.” Soap, suds and toys scattered.
Suddenly the whirling winds ceased like a summer storm and calm was restored to the water.
My son glanced around. “How can something so little be this messy?”