the tiniest nail in the universe

scooping up insects from the pool (an ode to mary oliver)

in tuscany,
i spend my afternoons fishing insects from the pool.
the flies crawl up my fingers with their wet paper bodies,
and i wait patiently for their wings to dry.

spiders scatter fast—
suspicion in every trembling limb.
the wasps, i don’t dare touch,
instead offer branches and leaves 
like a peace treaty.
somehow, this makes me fear them less.

grasshoppers are the boldest.
they jump too early, fall back in,
and i chase them again.
i love the pressure of their feet on my skin—
proof that something this small still wants to live.

sometimes I carry them farther, past the tile, into the garden.
i cup my hands like prayer
and place them in the pink nerium flowers,
where nothing drowns.

ladybugs cling the longest,
refusing to let go,
as if to say thank you—
or maybe don’t go yet.
i hold my arm out like a lighthouse,
patience the only thing i have to offer.

my dad watches from the terrace,
laughs at my busy-body movements.
he says it’s pointless—
i won’t be there to save them all day,
and they’ll be dead by morning.

and i know that. i know.

but how do you watch something struggle,
legs flailing,
wings stitched to the water by panic—
and not reach out?

mary oliver once wrote: may I be the tiniest nail in the house of the universe
—tiny but useful.
i think about that as i kneel at the edge,
placing each body back on land,
watching them dry their fragile wings,
tiny hands rubbing tiny antennae.

today, i chose kindness.
today, i was the tiniest nail
holding the world in place,
for one more moment.

the next day, i look up from my book—
just in time to see my dad 
scooping something up
with both hands.