The voicing of an instinct, might mutter under breath
the definition of nearly nothing: small, round and white.
We know so many things are real which are not proved by sight.
The sun withdrawn, behind thick clouds, appears small, round and white.
Beneath a sky of darkness, walking home alone,
the moon’s somehow a comfort, though it’s just small, round and white.
In silent chapels, shadowy, alone trickling tears,
someone lifts to the altar a face small, round and white.
Side by side, jeans on a bench, soul sisters pray and sing;
guitar and flute and lyric lilt to praise small, round and white.
In robes ornately woven, hands veiled, the priest lifts high
within carved golden glory: a host small, round and white.
The biker in his leather, the business men, suits striped,
the ladies in their finery kneel to small, round and white.
Rich and poor queue up towards the sanctuary, return,
upon each red and pulsing tongue: wafer small, round and white.
Each time a miracle occurs, the men of science find
heart-tissue, torn and bleeding, blent with small, round and white.
To comprehend the everything and essence of all truth,
the symbol for eternity may be: small, round and white.
Ruth Asch is a poet and short-story writer, whose work can be found in many literary journals and sites (such as Ghazal Page, Peacock Journal, Piltdown Review, Jesus the Imagination) and anthologies (Mother’s Milk, The Forgotten and Fantastical Vol.4, Beauty First) and in an early collection of her own poetry: Reflections (St Austin Press 2009). She is also a teacher of English and Latin, and the mother of five, living in Preston, England.