Today my heart is a geography of loss,
a pond where my too-big boots
disturb the shimmering glop of polliwogs,
a field where oxeye daisies,
Canadian thistle, and tansy ragwort
are the only crop. My heart
once held the twittering of nuthatches,
the three lonely notes of the varied thrush.
Whether map or territory,
without it, where will I stand to sing
my song of childhood, the creek's complaint,
the churrup of frogs? Can the heart
survive as a lidded box whose key is lost?
Why should anyone pry it open
and lift out memory, folds and folds of it
like a musty afghan?
image from http://crochetclub.ca/