<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=388122" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>In The Small Things...</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">it is in the small things that we die, <br>in the breath of cardboard boxes, <br>and the silent scream of forgotten things.<br>in the scent of pine needles fresh fallen, <br>and the sound of the creek crossing rocks.<br>in bat droppings, and abandoned nests of straw....<br>in smoke curled into the candle.<br>in squirrels' prayers to fading light, <br>and the sound of tires on an endless road.<br>in clouds hanging just above the treetops, <br>in the single chime of the church bell.<br>in the broom sweeping the floor of the soup kitchen, <br>in old men telling lies and shuffling to keep warm.<br>in the baby curled against the breast, <br>in the letter never finished.<br>in the faces of god on milk cartons, <br>in the wino pissing in the alley.<br>in the 'i love you' that you choked on, <br>and the silence that replays.<br>in the coffee pot singing hymns, <br>and gravestones whispering to each other.<br>in the empty barracks and unloaded guns, <br>in the bare limb tree that still believes.<br>in the thunder of the butterfly's wings, <br>in the wrinkles on the old man's face.<br>in the forgotten nails of the abandoned house, <br>in the footfall of forever's ghosts</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Eric+Cockrell">Eric Cockrell</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=388122" data-title="In The Small Things... de Eric Cockrell" data-description="it is in the small things that we die, in the breath of cardboard boxes, and the silent scream of forgotten things. in the scent of pine needles fresh fallen, and the sound of the creek crossing rocks. in bat droppings, and abandoned nests of s..."></div> </div> </div>

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