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Click hereLittle by little
and by and by and by
means so small
that fidget and fiddle
and ache and make
would make no sound at all,
you skiddle and fiddle and
fidget finger by finger that step
and stop and linger
on anger and hunger and
anything in between
that rather and really
should stay if not untouched
at least unseen.
Little by little you
trip on a tremble
and flutter and blink,
turn coal into carousel scarlet
and brick into butter scotch pink.
Flutter and blink and flicker
and twink and fiddle and skiddle and fun,
you fumble and lips tips stumble
across this tense, and if you mumble
this close something might make sense
just a little by little
leave little fingerprints by and by
to guide down the sun.
It needs to be nothing but little by little,
a fumble a stumble a fiddle,
to get the job done.
Somehow it seems to be about how we really bumble our ways through life in precise unconnected acts that finally get us to the end. Whatever it's really about, for me it's a perfect little precise poem about imprecision.
I can tell you were playing with words and rhyme and rhythm as you wrote it. "Butterscotch" is one word (tell me if you're sick of me pointing out typos and I'll stop lol). The word choices and structure make the poem feel both well-integrated and circular, which fit the theme really well.