When grief grew too great, a grey weight on my chest
that crowded out first gratitude -- then hope -- then breath --
I buckled. Grey pavement scraped my knees. Blind,
I lived alone with the grey weight on my back, the cloud
crowding my mind, seeping to poison all my bones.
Crushed there I took your trade: new heart for stone
(I could not pay).
This heart, I thought, receiving it, is strange--
not crushed to coal, to diamond, to blank inturned rage
but crushable. You could scrape this new, soft heart
on toast -- strawberry jam -- You wouldn't even have to chew
to eat this heart. So permeable, April-full. It felt
like the pink space when your tooth came out,
in second grade. It didn't hurt (not then), but it was tender,
It is a heart, I thought, for rest. For joy. For peace --
Oh, it is scraped and sore. Pinned onto promise and belief--
raw, nailed to someday rest and peace.
My own stone heart locked up my private pain
my own walled world. There is no lock on this You gave.
There is no skin. I might be changed
into a sponge. My eyes are lidless, wide. I drink
more tears than I can count.
Yet soaked, this heart grows broad with sorrow shared--
and grieved hope grows its roots deeper in God.
Drowned, then pulled up, I thought to gain relief,
but find a heart enlarged holds larger grief.