I see them everywhere, hearts.
In cumulous clouds and sunflower leaves.
In thinly sliced strawberries
and the dark hollow of a split hickory nut.
I see them in white bird shit splatted on a bench,
these symmetrical kissing curves
designated as an ideograph for love.
And how many hundreds of heart rocks
have I slipped into my pockets to bring home
like sedimentary and igneous proofs
of love manifest in matter.
I don’t know when I stopped collecting
the rocks, finding more joy in picking
them up and displaying them trailside
so others could delight in them, too.
Later, I took pictures of the hearts
where I found them, wanting not to disturb,
perhaps trusting that love shows up
exactly where it is needed most.
Now, when I see them,
I will most likely smile to myself
as I walk by, no longer needing
to stockpile or keep a record.
Still, it surprises me every time,
the joy of loving things just as they are,
the joy of leaving things whole.