Heart to Art
Romance of the rose in part-
icular scent, texture, hue
carried and cared
for from you.
Roses reside inside, arriving
by scent from smooth petal
scarlet or white. Roses arrive
and rest
assured.
They rest not knowing
the future as I do and so the rest
is easy before
rust nips at the coiling edge of
hope, nips and tucks, curtails, till
petal droops, curls and drops
on stone.
Heart suspends suspense
and pauses, skips the beat
to bear what can’t be
born.
The heart does not grow over.
It grows through the lump in
the throat and out the mouth—
new birth of sorts, of change.
Heart knows its kind, knows its
own, knows as well kind
words. They too can cut
clear through skin, so many
layers meaning… what?
To stay kind
of alive in metaphor— beating
beating heart, the rhythm of
survival, thriving.
Your Hermes to my Hestia,
fire-side.
for Gavin, Beloved
Penn Kemp 