The weight of the world
is a feather in the hand of its maker.
It does not burden, break, or bury
the one who reigns outside of Time and Space's domain.
Our behemoths are merely single barbs
attached to that weightless shaft
that flutters like the forest's souvenirs
given to a child, fallen from the wings of a jay.
In his hand our juggernauts
are not threats but specimen.
His palm is large enough
to hold worry ad infinitum.
Push the crushing fear
off your chest and rest,
knowing that it's but a harmless feather
fluttering in your father's hand.