Writing My Heart

I’ll tell where my heart is

I’ll try to.

My heart is sunk,

sad and slow,

lost and unknowing in a maze

of unknowingness.

It left itself behind

back when it was suggested

it might be required. 

Its presence wanted.

It was afraid.

It hid.

I don’t know where I left it.

Here it is.  In the fluff

under the sofa.

Peeking from behind the cushions.

Squashed into the back of an infrequently opened cupboard. 

Misshapen and small. 

There it is in my children,

a glowing sun.
Huge, immortal, bold and brazen.

Taking itself so lightly it floats

in beauty
we watch it

a bubble

in the sun
amazing

and amazed. 

How it grows and shines and lights us. 

Don’t you
pop it.

Don’t you pop my heart
with your selfishness

or take it down and keep it. 

Delicate it is. 

Wanted it is. 

Wanting. 

Wanting your breath

to coax it, blow it, elate it. 

Inflate it.

Confused my heart is, frightened

and yet fulfilled.

How it struggles
not knowing where to settle.

Pacing. 

Pacing. 

Out and in,

up and down. 

What to do with gifts,

it wonders.
Tentatively takes and queries,

examines and puts aside. 

Heart,

heart,

eat those gifts.

Consume them. 

Dare.

Learn as little ones are

not to beware.

Take love as offered

life as proffered. 

Feed yourself
grow.

Here is my heart,

cupboard door ajar

frightened eyes.

I left it here, simply peeping.

Rhymes safe keeping.

NRM 17/11/11