I was walking to work this morning in the frigid cold when I noticed something. It's about that time of year when the grass isn't looking so good and the soil looks bland and dead. I noticed a patch of said soil in the shape of a heart, and it made me think.
Is the heart a place where nothing can grow? The first part of the body to shut down when the cold front hits? It seems about right. I took it personally. Here's the barren ground of my heart, and here is all the life outside of it.
I know it's silly to go off on such a tangent upon seeing a mere patch of dirt and dust, but, in the end, isn't that what a heart is?
x a.h.
(On the bright side, I guess this means my mind is working again.)
hear the day.
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2 comments:
Although I don't think cummings' meant to say "the heart is a place where nothing can grow", somehow your post reminded me of this poem.
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;
only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
ee cummings
hmm... well, it was almost winter. a cold heart can't do much. luckily, it's spring now.
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