The heart has its tributaries,
rivers deep, carved through stony ground.
And the heart has its flowering branches,
The heart has its heights,
where the view is worth the walk. And the closed path
Yes, from the hill,
where vistas unwrap like scrolls laid out upon the ground,
I see how the landscape reflects the hidden self’s core.
And why not?
Why should the view without not be a sort of mirror,
or map to navigate by.
I think I will see my heart
in how the rivers flow and connect.
In how the trees will rise up from inhospitable ground.
I will watch the way
hills fold, mount up
to fall like ocean’s waves.
And the sudden view,
that surprises through the trees, will reveal how the heart
has its many layers
that hold threads of continuity
like words crossing a divide.
Yes, the heart has its tributaries,
and the landscape is the hidden self, exposed.
Maybe that’s why
catching a glimpse
is like looking through clouds at a long familiar face.
feels like rivers might
as they flood out to the sea’s edge, and find themselves a small part of something entirely whole.