Sometimes I go about pitying myself,
and all the time I am being carried
on great winds across the sky.
Sometimes I lose it like the keys
to the car left in my old jeans after
that long walk through the pines when
I fell into the marsh and the keys were all
muddy, caked in my pocket, tossed in the
washing machine. Then you called and there
was dinner and the bills. And I couldn’t find
them and felt that rush of loss as if I’d left
my heart out in the rain and it washed away.
How will I get anywhere? Where will I look
for my heart? It never really goes anywhere
just deeper within like a turtle pulling back
into its shell when I frighten it. We carry it
in us like a glass of water balanced just above
the heart and then we rush and spill it which
doesn’t feel quite right either. But when I’ve
made my mess and tossed the keys and lost
my heart and spilled the fullness I carry
on everything, somehow then I am brought
back. Then I ache for the courage to simply
feel what I can’t understand. Then I watch
the rain and brush the mud from my eyes.
It’s been in my pocket the whole time.