Heart Poem
The heart, a coast flooded,
a much bloodied border,
refuses the order
of what is.
Though it won’t let go
to receive (maybe),
though it lays low
so the flood might recede,
though it pleads with shifting sands,
all it knows of land
and sea,
it beats
with what must be,
with what must be.
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55 words for Real Toads, hosted by the wonderful Kerry O’Connor. (Photo–of sky above Central Park, NYC–was taken by me. All rights reserved.) I have edited this slightly since first posting but kept to 55 words.
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