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Posts Tagged ‘heart’

 

 

 

Besides learning to see, there is another art to be learned, — not to see what is not.

            —Maria Mitchell, pioneering astronomer

 

 

Give me eyes that see only what is,

eyes not fooled by veils, by scars.

Give me ears that hear only the words that are said,

ears that clearly translate silence.

But give me a heart that feels into

what is possible, a heart that believes

in goodness, despite reports

from ears, from eyes. Give

me a heart that speaks only love,

that leans toward kindness, that opens

again and again like an O’Keefe petunia—

larger than anticipated, mind stopping,

soul rousing, haloed by wonder

and wholly true to itself.

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One Bewilderment

 

 

 

my heart a red fist,

beating, intent on self-protection

when, despite itself,

it opens, astonished, to find

it’s a peony, a sunrise, a wing

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Arrangement

 

 

 

In my heart, a mandolin

just waiting to be played—

there are music sheets,

ignore them. Doesn’t matter

if you know how to play.

What matters is you try.

What matters is you practice

tuning the strings

until you find the way

to make them sing.

What matters is that

we both know there’s

music in there just waiting

to be found and

your hands are curious,

tender.

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One Renewal

 

 

eavesdropping on my own heart

surprised to hear your heart beating

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I make in my heart a nest for the questions,

ask them to stay, and at the same time

post a sign that says

answers only—

no wonder they fly away.

 

 

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stubbing my toe

the whole foot, the whole world,

becomes toe

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One in Winter

 

 

 

when cold enough

the river becomes its own obstacle—

oh heart, stay warm, stay warm

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Imagine that your hands are an extension of your heart. Because they are.

—Clea Willow, yoga instructor

 

 

While slipping coins into the meter

I remind my hands they are doing

the work of the heart. They fumble

to find another quarter in my coin purse,

then drop it on the sidewalk

where it shines against the gray.

Isn’t that just like the heart, I think,

to bumble even the simplest of routines.

It could be so easy to search for, hold closely,

and let go at just the right time.

Come on hands, I tell them, do what

what the heart must do. Reach.

Recover. Try again.

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But it’s not just another culvert, the aorta.

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Sometimes when I feel my heart

harden, become quartzite, a stone

hard enough to cut my tooth, hard

enough to cut the blade of a knife,

I let myself be led

into the narrow and moss-soft gorges

of the Appalachians.

The creek here has rendered the sandstone

edges into rounded walls

where hemlock and dark green lichen grow.

 

It’s no revelation that this church

of curves is the work of water.

Still, when my friend Paul mentions

that only because the water is moving

is it able to erode the stone, the knowledge

washes me new. How long have I been settled

in a quiet pool?

 

I have tried not to move, tried not

to be tumbled. For a moment,

I envy the rounded bit of quartzite

Paul holds in his palm.

 

No, I tell myself. That would only change

the surface of things. What is smoothed

is no less hard. I turn to the ferns

growing out of the rock. Time

for a new metaphor.

 

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