It will be a small thing
should such an one as I no more than live,
that I place a foot
before another foot;
before a thought;
crossing with courage
the ordained bridge of breathing
from yesterday to tomorrow until the end.
Was I ever fit for even this?
“A rose” may be my only miracle:
from worm-eaten earth.
Arise! Arise! flourish silently on woody stem;
be shaded by your rough and raspy leaves;
And if with thorns you tear my flesh,
well, it will be a small thing.