If such energy could be
never lost, let me

be the cool drop
your tongue finds

at midday
digging weeds

from our poor
hillside garden.

I'd hide
as a doorstop or

bottlecap,
crescent of soap

sudsing
your shaving dish.

Better yet, I'd feel
both your hands

holding me as you roll
out biscuit dough.

Let some particle
of my hair

latch on
to your ear,

or find me
nested

in the soft pocket
of your pants.

I may be the mouse
you curse,
strewing crackers
behind the stove,

an Alpine cloud
shadowing your view,

an ice cube
watering your drink.

I may be the last
pinch of salt

in your aunt's
glass cellar,

enough to savor
your beef stew.

And if you should
likewise be

rearranged,
no longer cinched

by these familiar cells,
let us rove

as beetles by the pond
(you know the one)

our antennae touching lightly
as we pass.

Joan Baranow