And the human heart is not personal: the more we fathom our own hearts, the more we find there the being of others and, beyond that, the very heart of the world itself. —Reginald Ray, “Looking Inward, Seeing Outward”
I ask
the world
to open me
and fling wide
both arms—
and the sky
rushes in
and my eyes
are guided
to find
my heart
hanging in trees,
strewn in an ant hill,
painted on a rock,
and everywhere
I am, I am not.
Until
‘you’ no longer look for ‘it’.
And then, we experience our heart sown across the milky way
and in the bubbles of a sleepy milk-filled baby’s breath.
There’s something about no longer being personal about this whole mishigas, yes?
Thank you, Rosemerry–loved this one
Ending, again, closes it all so well. I like that the heart can be found everywhere, though I might change one of those “in” at the end into an “on” — maybe the third one. “Painted on” would seem to be more correct. And besides, the assonance of “on” would sing so much better with “not.”