My heart
is a little silver bucket
that sits under the leak in your roof
and catches the raindrops
that fall like tears.
My heart,
like the bucket,
wants to hold every drop,
every tear,
but that is
unreasonable,
there is not enough space;
and my heart,
like the bucket,
begins to overflow, but still
it holds.
My heart
is the wicker basket
that holds the harvest:
apples and corn,
carrots and pears,
squash and zucchini.
My heart
is heavy
with the harvest.
It sags, it buckles, but still
it holds.
My heart
is the cradle
into which you can place your grief
so that you can finally go to sleep.
My heart
was made
to hold the pain,
so let me
hold yours.
About the Creator
baby bachio
'i wander with my thoughts and i'm sure that what i'm writing now i already wrote. i remember... my god, my god, whose performance am i watching? how many people am i? who am i? what is this space between myself and myself?'
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