still and always

I’d like to tell you that everything I know about love is in the right hand drawer of that table from India book-ending my living room.

I’d like to say happiness is like a dog sleeping under a magnolia tree.

I’d like the sound of February rain to remind me time is a patient mother.

For the bed to make my wildest dreams come true.

For the day to be peeled slowly, like a ripe apple.

For the daisies to remain in my kitchen awake and supple and perpetually pinking.

I’d like the stretch of Montana when worry hits, the Appalachian view when sadness lifts its little white flag.

I’d like to say the orange chair will hold all the weight, and the window will let in all the light.

I’d like to tell you my heart will outlast every other organ in my body.

And yet.

There are days when love fans out to streets I can’t name.
And happiness is a tired mechanic under a broken car.
And the rain clots the gutters with leaves.
And the bed dishevels the opportunity for rest.
The day, an overripe mango, bruising on the shelves.
The daisies, shedding hopes in petals.
Montana the longest solitude.
The chair hidden under a coat that isn't warm enough.
The window masked by a tangle of power lines.

No matter.

Still, the heart.
Always, the heart.