When the heart’s
in its own
peculiar ache,
the mind sifts through
how many words?
weighing and discarding,
it sets aside only
the lightest ones,
in hopes to ease
the heart’s pain,
but this is never what
the heart, it wants to say,
for the mind, it only
skims the surface,
like a water bug skates,
like a water bug balances,
on who knows
how many fathoms?
at what depths
the heart does break.
Still Light
Poetry is at least an elegance and at most a revelation.
