There are four hundred thousand bumps
on the top of your tongue, each built
like a terracotta soldier: different from each other.
A tree has more leaves than you can count
in an afternoon and there are more trees
than stars in the Milky Way.
Do you see what I’m trying to tell you?
How many moments have already passed, how many
are there yet to be, but we are in this one:
Our own little soldier, smirk on his face,
lined up to march wherever he’s called.