Delicate Balance

A tree leaf so strong it can hang on tight-clinging to the branch through a tempest
so delicate it can be gnawed, rendered holey by armored black beetles, or by a tiny

green worm

so strong it can chew through thick leaf membranes and tissue leaving its mark,
so delicate it can be smooshed dead against the leaf with the merest push of the tip of

a finger

so delicate it can be ripped from its skin-and-bones mooring by a bike chain in action
so strong it can carry the weight of a vow, a marriage, a wedding ring anchoring

a hand

so delicate it can be broken by the force of a ball thrown fast and hard against its frame
so strong it can write for hours with a pen, type a book into being, page by page by page,

a book

so strong it can inspire emotion, action, conveying ideas to and through a generation
so delicate it can be banned, ripped and shredded, burned into oblivion, leaving

grey ash

so strong it can contain the memory of what and who it was for eternity,
so delicate it can only be decoded by scientists if we catch it before it is

scattered

blown away on the same winds that send holey leaves spinning, forcing tiny green worms
to grip with strong foot and jaw, to cling with delicate balance in those unmoored moments.