in something small

Salvation is not triumphant.
Sometimes it is as subtle as the cleaners,
the cooks
and the kind people who take away our garbage.

Sometimes it is as silent as a good night’s sleep,
the gardener down the street,
the podiatrist who cleans all kinds of feet.

Sometimes it is as still as a windless day,
a rock buried within clay,
having nothing more to say.

Sometimes it comes when we finally stop and feel the well of what was buried
become alive and come aloud.

Sometimes we succumb to its sensation
vibrating throughout each part of creation.

And sometimes it comes in the simple act of just being,
just breathing,
in our unbecoming
until we come face to face with its unbearable and unbreakable something.