This morning, walking,
a welder’s sparks falling
inside a building frame,
a cage of flames
and empty space,
of noncommittal sky.
Sactum sanctorum,
with its quietest corners,
a heart, too, is made
from many rooms:
antechambers,
foreparlours, endlessly
recessing, a heart
has no heart to it,
it is a door that opens
and shuts.
Passage defines it,
existence demands it,
a place of access,
and egress, that hue
of regret. Somewhere
along this way, honeysuckle
is blooming early,
with weighty sweetness.
This sadness, why?
Such is love’s transgression.
To think of Romeo on this
of all days. A season
progresses, but a morning,
it gives way.
OPTIONAL POETRY 
Thank you for this on Valentine’s Day! Hope yours was at least filled with chocolates.
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Beautiful. Nice to see you’re adding visuals now… lovely extended metaphor and surprising speaker. I love the idea that ‘a heart has no heart’ – thanks for dropping by recently! ~ P ~
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A very good poem. Thanks for sharing!
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Thank you Henrietta
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You are welcome!
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this is wonderful!
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