acts themselves trivial

These two lines are from a Paul Hetherington poem that echoes in my ears almost every day. My desire to share them overwhelmed any feelings that I should only sketch from my own words.

The full poem goes like this:

Folding yet another nappy
From the flung pile
Still warm from the line
Is remembering a twelve-hour old
Child, amazement, uncertainty.

Feeling the soft texture, clean smell,
Is to remember each bucket
Sloshed from sink
To washing machine,
And nights of scream-ruptured sleep,

And to pile them now
One after another
Is to think of the search for order,
Containment, a way of adjusting things,
So love’s not snowed under

By the sheer monotony
Of each day’s remorseless pressing,
Placing nappies in a cupboard,
White, clean, ready
For tomorrow’s removal

As if nothing is permanent,
Pressing shut the cupboard door
Just one more gesture,
As if acts themselves trivial
Define the enormity of love.