A thin heart.
Of debris. The leaves could be feathers,
nesting. It seems significant.
That everything is caught
on the rough road before the sewer’s gate.
Everything in this moment
has arrived.
Broken.
The rain broke free from cloud.
Leaf from stem.
And I.
Can I speak of my heart?
And the everyday gravel? I didn’t want to be a refugee.
Leaves.
Gutter heart.
I’ve been there.
I am here.
To get to hereafter mercies, is there a road ahead?
Or am I going to make one?
The photo at the end was such a beautiful surprise. Here's to trailblazing in the gutter.