My life was wound as a propeller elastic,
bundled coiled stretches waiting to let go,
and the little balsa wood plane was carried
airborne across the room to land once
or twice and then forgotten, forsaken for
battery powered remote controlled plastic.
Me with books that say we all should matter,
not just those in high places, not just the
talented or the beautiful, but that you and I
have a calling to make our lives count, and
that our small selves hold the world in a glass,
For it is the meek who inherit the earth.