Thumbelina
by Theodora Goss

Sometimes I would like to be very small
so I could curl into a snail’s shell
or a seashell: abalone, nautilus,
even an oyster shell.  I would let the oyster
cover me with layer on layer of nacre,
come out shining.

Sometimes I would like to be very small
so I could hide myself inside a flower,
between the petals of a tulip or crocus,
inside purple or crimson walls, like a genie
in her bottle.  I would emerge covered
with pollen, riding a bee.

Sometimes I would like to be small enough
to live in the hollow of a tree, like a bird
or squirrel.  I would dress in leaves, eat acorns,
make a coat of felted fur.  I would live alone,
hiding, hiding, always hiding,
because the world is full of large things
that are too large, too loud.
Over them, I can’t hear the sea
whispering, the beat of a sparrow’s wings,
the annoyed chuff of a robin.

I would like to be small enough
to hear the dawn breaking, the tulip opening,
the sand as it shifts under each tide,
the long dream of rocks.

(The image is Cock Robin and Flower Fairy by Kathleen Wallis Coales.)