mowing over dandelions
is not quite the same
as the childlike wonder
of blowing away seeds and fluff,
the wind catching and floating off
tiny parachutes full
of imagination and dreams,
the world an endless possibility
of happy endings.
but there is something
in driving the motor over their bowed
and weed killer-sprayed heads,
the blade spinning impassively
and the wheels flattening their discarded stems,
while small puffs of seedlings escape
from under the sides of the mower
like dying breaths.
the small joys of adulthood.
yesterday it snowed a late spring snow,
and today i watched heavy, wet mounds fall
from the branches, already laden with green.
rather than sitting in silence,
the weight of cold and frozen memories
keeping them still,
exposed limbs blanketed and tucked away,
the branches let the snow slip off in shrugs,
wet leaves dancing,
sending showers down,
too full of life, too awake to sleep another day.
When you say, “I will give you a new heart,”
you do not mean that you will throw away
the one I already have
like a totaled car or a broken dish.
For you, new is a word
that means returning something
to its original purpose,
restoring its former glory.
Which is why you make reusable hearts,
something good of your own hand.
an up-cycle, this heart,
re-purposed into a new love,
what it was always made for.
the joy of doing nothing —
of stretching out my thoughts,
too long folded up,
of staring into the sky
in search of new words,
of drawing still enough to feel
the universe expand,
of letting my soul settle