This Heart

By Jennifer Angelina Petro

This snow slows time; falls

With patience only grief understands.

Watching from this bed,

These legs folded under,

These hands resting on these thighs;

This snow becomes everything

This heart is not.

This nearly motionless drifting,

This meticulous chaos beautifully covering

Roads and rooftops, this insinuating

Itself through exposed crowns of trees,

This cold made visible, this sky

Reminding all of us it does whatever wants.

Things it does not accomplish:

Reaching the little flames of seeds,

Shrouding this fierce compassion burning

Inside this heart—coursing through this blood—

Not here, not today—

The furnace of this heart rages on.