Now my heart is full

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.

About pinklightsabre

William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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