this heart

soggy and frayed,
like the bottoms of your jeans,
when you were seventeen;
having been dragged
all over Creation,
as you were avoiding
being a fool,
just trying to look cool:
youthful exhilaration;

that's how this heart of mine
seems to muddle through
all the time,
when my thoughts turn to you:
wet, worn and forsaken,
even for all the love made,
and all the joy taken;
still and all I wouldn't want
to change a single thing
for the way you make my
heart sing, it's a wonder:
that rubbed raw and soiled,
I am glad to have toiled
in the beauty of your garden.

January 22, 2009, for Jan.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

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