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Posts Tagged ‘broken heart’

Open Eyed

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , on January 5, 2023| 12 Comments »


 
 
The more we open our eyes,
the more the heart breaks.
Still, the invitation to open our eyes,
to choose to live broken heartedly,
as on this day when I hear again
of the greed and cruelty of humans
and the heart breaks and breaks
and I feel how it is in the breaking
the heart stays open.
On the windowsill, the amaryllis
has opened two enormous blooms of red
and I am so rich with the gift of it,
as if this one flower is teaching the heart
how to unfurl its lush petals
as it moves from tight bud
to spaciousness, dusting
the world around it with gold.
 

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Nothing to Say

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on October 9, 2022| 2 Comments »

 
 
So I light a candle
and though I am hundreds
of miles from you,
I say your name
into the flame—
your name
and the name
of your beloved
who is gone—
these the only
syllables worth saying.
Then I hold silence for you
the way the earth
holds the ocean,
the way a canyon
holds wind,
the way a broken heart
holds another
broken heart.

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Kintsugi Heart

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on November 11, 2021| 14 Comments »

After the heart broke like a porcelain bowl,
when it shattered in pieces, scattered,
life itself reassembled the shards.
Friends bring their melted gold
to seal the bits together again.
I trace my fingers across the shining scars.
Some pieces will be missing forever.
Let me fall in love with what has been broken.
Let me dare to call it beautiful.

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Taking My Broken Heart to the Shoe Repair

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on September 16, 2015| 2 Comments »

Exactly what do you want me to do

with this, the shoe man says. I work with soles.

Well yes, I say, but I could really use

a recondition—and I read about

your gentle cleaning process that helps strip

away the dirt accumulated over

time, and how your Top-Coat Prime Refinish

makes what’s old look new and feel good

again. Oh lady, says the cobbler, I

am sorry. Look, your shoes are scuffed a little,

I can shine them up, but I can’t do

a thing about your heart. He looks me in

the eye the way that only other broken

hearts can look. I do not start to cry,

but I think he can gather by the way

that I stare blankly at the floor just how

plum desperate I’ve become. Some things, he says,

work better when they’re broken. Then he’s off

to use his polish, glue and rags, to fix

the things that can be fixed.

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