The Heart's Geography

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


  1. ah, a glop of polliwogs - good thing - hope they are tree frog glops - The froglady

  2. I thought you'd like that.

    I'm at my desk today...grading...but a huge flock of either snow geese just flew across my view.

  3. Could easily be Snow Geese going to the Skagit Valley - they are better than the tulips, a little early for both though - And the trumpeter Swans - eagles - hawks..............ah


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