Little Chores

Like the most aerial of birds, the heart breaks into a day

all by itself, nearly a perfect thing, though it skims so much

along the way, reads and rides patterns in wind-

Not that you can tell it to do anything at all, yet you tell it

what you have not told anyone, little by little, as if wanting

to be rescued, call it a wishfulness, or a light in which you

believe you can move. Such are its wonders, the heart

swimming closely by your side, dipping under the blue fringe

of morning, choosing the only deep region it's ever known.

We can be made whole again. Let everything listening know it.

Give with each breath the beginning of your self, made ready

when you wake-take up little chores just as your mother once gave you-

wake again and enter new, this day, the ever-blue ordinance of it.