Perhaps our hearts are different sizes
like cups made by joining palms,
closing seams—
we don’t know their size until they’re empty or full
and even then, it’s unclear:
their only job is to hold,
a place to store things for safekeeping
from the envy of others,
the fear of ours
that keeps them closed.
Image by Susanne Nilsson, “Monument.” Wiki Commons.
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Categories: Poetry
Bill Pearse 
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