what if
one’s heart is still,
hanging like a breath waiting to be taken

a nut, after it’s cracked

if, when the wind calls from high in the trees,
the heart moves not
listening, instead, for the jumpstart from within
and still
it hovers, the tick awaiting its tock

how does one follow?

when a life’s elbowing from one direction to every other becomes
the unanswered song of a bird
silenced by its own call

when discipline lays down like an old dog after
a hot walk

when the last thought has settled, as in a drawer collecting odd things
that, over time, signify little

how, then, does one follow one’s heart?

when one’s heart is no longer clamouring for attention
no longer seized by emotion
when its shocks have soothed
its aches smoothed over
its poundings dulled
when it just
an angel on a baby’s first breath
an idea stricken from form
an errand

when Being becomes the heart’s only agreement

which direction is forward?


judith cockman  august 11, 2014

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