My grandfather’s globe

The world becomes intricate miniature
shrunk down to a sphere you turn in your hand.
One’s fingers slide from islands to mainland
without ruffling water’s cool composure.
Each country’s a tile of some precious stone:
mother of pearl, jade, lapis lazuli
whose hued reflections jockey for the eye
and whose contours belong to each alone.

Still they fit in smoothly with their neighbors
integrating the continents of land
to satisfy by completing jigsaw
a singular and comprehensive awe
that at such scaling knows no countermand
in populace’s destructive labor.