Writing My Heart

I’ll tell where my heart is
I’ll try to.
My heart is sunk,
sad and slow,
lost and unknowing in a maze
of unknowingness.
It left itself behind
back when it was suggested
it might be required. 
Its presence wanted.
It was afraid.
It hid.
I don’t know where I left it.
Here it is.  In the fluff
under the sofa.
Peeking from behind the cushions.
Squashed into the back of an infrequently opened cupboard. 
Misshapen and small. 
There it is in my children,
a glowing sun.
Huge, immortal, bold and brazen.
Taking itself so lightly it floats
in beauty
we watch it
a bubble
in the sun
amazing
and amazed. 
How it grows and shines and lights us. 
Don’t you
pop it.
Don’t you pop my heart
with your selfishness
or take it down and keep it. 
Delicate it is. 
Wanted it is. 
Wanting. 
Wanting your breath
to coax it, blow it, elate it. 
Inflate it.
Confused my heart is, frightened
and yet fulfilled.
How it struggles
not knowing where to settle.
Pacing. 
Pacing. 
Out and in,
up and down. 
What to do with gifts,
it wonders.
Tentatively takes and queries,
examines and puts aside. 
Heart,
heart,
eat those gifts.
Consume them. 
Dare.
Learn as little ones are
not to beware.
Take love as offered
life as proffered. 
Feed yourself
grow.
Here is my heart,
cupboard door ajar
frightened eyes.
I left it here, simply peeping.
Rhymes safe keeping.
NRM 17/11/11
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