Small Pleasures

are rarely written of. But this week
I have a need to mention some:
an egg spills double yolks into the pan.
The watering can is heavy, filled already.
That bracelet he gave me reappears—
seam of turquoise between floorboards.
A wren darts into the kitchen and out again.
The tiny death rattle of a burned-out light bulb.
Those moments when the full moon seems a sphere...
Pleasures with the heft of tinsel,
so small they're irreducible.

Nikia Leopold

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