Monday, July 12, 2021

Maybe hearts were made for breaking: 
pincushions, fluff-and-stuffed for jab 
after sharp jab. These squishy fists
that clench hope upon hope, ready
to absorb their dashings, spit out
the shards, muscle up like beefcakes
who tear themselves apart daily.

For surely hearts are made to heal,
watered with tears, tended with warmth:
woody roots that split and regrow
in fresh soil. Clumps of sod, damp and 
dirty, hold together, knowing
mostly darkness, unsure of the sun.
Turned over by our spades, they groan

before calloused hands reset them,
ready to nourish new growth.

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love notes
a ritual to start the work week