The Granny Smith apple core at the edge of a coffee saucer

The single carnation set to balance on the edge of the English Department’s bike rack

The old man whose slowly biking his way down Broad St. whistling a tune I can’t recognize

The old woman whose taking a break from weeding at the edge of her vegetable box

the single star that’s somehow fought its way out from under the clouds to show itself off in the cube of sky my window holds

chocolate sprinkled across a cappuccino

the touch of another human being against my shoulder, on a crowded sofa, in the palm of my hand

Every time I read Sohrab Sepehri’s poems I’m awed by his ability to  notice such fine threads of vibrancy in life’s tapestry, but I think this week I’ve learned: It’s only when the flame inside you is so weak that the smallest rush of cold breath could put it, that you burn through every potential piece of warmth.