Sorry to say—compassion
isn't a
very big thing.
It's more like
that precise and pointed
jewel facet
where kinship
annihilates
individuality.
It's a blade,
a weapon. It's knowing—
like a narrow spear of
rain knows the river,
like a pair of silver scissors
knows white paper—
that right now,
somebody out there
needs more help
than they're
willing to ask for—and yet,
also owning the feeling
that it could be, sometimes,
worse than this:
sometimes there's a
desperate little animal
making its nest
under the hood of your car,
and it needs
more help
that it knows
exists.