The heart is not a box,

though at times it lives between walls

of our own making.

The heart breathes. It moves. It moves with the root of us.

Where are we centered, when the heart is so hard it feels solid?

Up in our heads? The heart feels our absence,

cries for wholeness. The heart is the home we return to

when we heal.

It carries no shame. It only knows light.

Somewhere inside us it lies quietly buried, but intact, holding onto an infinite sun.

Even when we are so distracted, so scattered, so separate from our senses, separate from what’s real – even then we feel the tug of it, we feel its pulse, its call

And one only needs to be curious, be willing

to open, bit by bit, to the heart’s sweetness,

her wild strawberries, lotus petals, teardrops…

When you let it slide into your ear, the heart’s song melts you slowly,

softens your eyes… forehead… your shoulders,

the heart knows no hardness, no tension.

Let the heart open,

she will sing silken songs of love

to be reunited with you,

and with life.

Without your heart’s song singing loud, where is the heart in your world?

We were never meant to live in a heartless world,

never tasked with a life of silence.

We must leave our mark.

And I plea, humbly, that we let it come

from the heart