what i have left of a heart

is not diminished by heartbreaks' inevitability,
or made great by disillusionments, the heart
simply ripens, and if there's sweetness now,
that is not a mask of treacle over weary age,

if there's thankfulness slowly replacing bitter,
patience cracking the edges of habitual rush,
well, this gift is from some universal artesian
aquifer below conscious life's surface, water

of baptism in ordinary's precious miraculous,
water of spontaneous laughter at paradoxes
the mirror insists we face every time we look;
this holy water's ripplings are love's echoing,

and we, shadows, finally, have eyes that see
a nakedness of beauty between us and light