'heart's home'

Epistle to Janice

“heart’s home”


The heart wept until the tears ceased to flow. Deep inside he hid and played a game of peek-a-boo. He rested at great length, to recharge batteries, dead from the weak light of a northern clime. He huddled against the frost, against months of clouds, against the pain and hid from the misery of heartless folk. Support came from those who also hid. He just survived.

Once he had basked in open grasslands, raced down smooth dirt roads past the limits never posted, past signs whose sunflower-shapes bore numbers. Even the meadowlarks greeted him on his way. Nourished, he grew from the kindness of a gentle folk, to sounds of thundered skies, to diamond ice sparkling in moonbeams. Grey had no hold upon this land, sorrow no harborage.

He wept. Tears of memories. Anger filled him at having been forgotten by his mind that struggled against the greyfolk and their charcoaled clime. This fade that had sought to light a globe of hope, in generosity had opened doors while hearts hid, strove for years to guess the combination of their locks. Some never opened and those that did were bare of hope. Their hearts had shriveled.

He fled the sorrow. Told the body, “Die upon the morrow, if you choose, but I must leave.” And did. The body, scolded, had no choice but follow to where it once had prayed on hallowed ground. There soaked by rays of sun and flung about by southern breezes, the cobwebs scattered from the mind that had forgotten Heart’s Home. They banished shadows and brought the scent of flowered Spring. Here, heart thrived and throbbed anew.

Dearest friend, I kept the embers alive through years of frost. Now they glow, stoked by a sunny furnace, under an open sky. There the people were blue and hearts were closed. Here skies are blue and hearts are as open as the prairie breeze. I once said, “I left my heart in Kansas.” The truth was my body wandered away from heart and home. Now it has returned. And I feel whole again.

Someday, I may visit the friends who struggle still with grey tormented hearts in that miserable chilly clime. But I will always know my home and never leave for good again.

Until we meet that day, gather the ingredients of a life well lived. To the flowers of your sons, add the giggles of your grandchildren. As the yeast of joy raises dough, knead with the wisdom you have gleaned from the harvest reaped through years of sowing love. Divide and place in the oven of your bosom. There, kindness bakes. As always, listen to your heart for when it’s done. Feed their souls. The fresh aroma of your Spirit will linger through the generations to come.


© Kåre Enga

mars 2004

for Janice Jay of Elma, New York.


NOTE TO RATERS/REVIEWERS:

This is poetry. It is a vignette. It is also an epistle, a letter, written to someone. A prose poem may have a bit of a narrative, but uses poetic devices: rhythm, rhyme, alliteration, image, etc. It is not a short story. It is not flash fiction. It needs to be rated as poetry first. If you feel it is prose, please comment. The line between the two is murky .