Not lengthy, they’re nowhere near long,

Yet meaningful, small and meaningful.

In a way these are the short stories of our lives,

The short stories that shape our lives.


To say it receives a nod,

It’s now a general truth.

Most people will admit-

“It’s the little things.”


There’s a feeling of futility.

And those many moments of realization,

They come with it.


Futility because it’s hard to see how life fits together.

Futility because when you realize this truth,

That life is made up of the small moments,

You know it’s impossible to orchestrate these.


You might be able to orchestrate all others:

When to do the laundry, when to pick up the kids;

When to rejoice, when to not.

But you cannot orchestrate the little things.


Things that we all know individually,

Different for each person.

For you, it’s the flowers in the neighbor’s yard,

The flowers that remind you of your green-thumbed mother.


Or for you it’s the whiff of shaving cream,

Taking you back to the first day you shaved,

The day you became a bona fide man.


There’s a feeling of achievement, also,

When the realization comes.

You’ve made it this far; you’ve conquered thus far.

It seems it’s worked out pretty well.


So, then, the futility is vanquished,

Because it seems, to me, pretty clear:

The little things don’t have to be orchestrated.


At least, not by me.

That’s why I like to think,

To conceive of something higher,

Something that does orchestrate the little things.


And it’s like a glorious symphony,

How it all works together,

One beautiful song, one beautiful line at a time,

In the hands of one so powerful.


It starts slow, with the easy breathing

Of a gently handled cello.

The energy builds as the symphony matures,

All gracefully handled by the maestro.


When the middle of the piece arrives, all is turbulent!

The screeching of the violin-

The banging of the cymbals!

But, well done, maestro, the crisis is overcome.


And as it nears its end

The piece allows one final swell.

Not one that speaks of disaster and disorder,

But more of a peaceful crescendo.


And at that moment, the last moment,

The last thoughts before his death

His final realization comes.


That though life is pieced together,

To be seen as a whole,

It is the little pieces that make it special,

That make it worth the while.


The swell fades to a gentle piano pulse

Softer, softer, softer,

Till the life is over.

So, his soul passes on.


His soul completely content,

Free of worry, free of care.

The maestro had it all in control,

All of the little things. 


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