Here I am, hoping, with my terracotta heart.
Hoping, once again, that one fall will be too little to send shards of my heart flying through the air.
Too many times I’ve gathered the pieces together and swept the floor.
The only cleaning ritual that ends without satisfaction.
There is no relief at the sight of neat piles and clean floors, only the knowledge of the work that now looms overhead.
Reconstruction.
Reconfiguration.
Refortification.
All so I can sit and hope again.
This time maybe I’ll wish too, with my terracotta heart.
.
.
.
Hope this finds you well,
-L
Sight Unseen 