[click on image to see detail]

The Heart

The hand is a resigned thing,
a coward and blind thing.
Like glances in passing,
it's epitaph always release.

The mind is a flawed thing,
a dry, undivine thing.
An abandoned well,
only the bottom responds.

The soul is a peregrine thing,
a pure but unprized thing.
Like a teabox figurine,
there's too much of this clay.

But the heart is a fine thing,
a finely designed thing.
Like a Japanese saw,
it cuts on the pull.