the heart's frame filling
and wasting, alternately,
by moment, by day,
placing new ink on old paper,
tries on new jeans,
sets empty shells aside,
plants seeds and listens and dreams.
stirrings are always soft at first,
only boldest tendrils test for purchase
before trusting, reaching, covering, climbing.
life is like that. no great burning
without first small spark.
no deep pool without first silent frost.
