Fleeting (less)

The heart becomes brittle and splinters into tiny shards from time to time, when untended, when bumped and jostled by bodies loose-joined, when it's carried not again and again to the Maker's house with palms upward and fingers spread eagle offering again and again, asking, again and again, "Spin it back together, again and again."

Life and hearts get undone.  Like the laundry.  Again and again.  Like leaves scattered, fall again, oh Spring!

How little Life the heart retains when let alone.  When it sits on a park bench in solitude but without a prayer.  When it is carried in a chest and hurried here and there by Adidas-driven feet, runners pounding the pavement, lungs stinging, striving to suck in more air.  When what it really needs, especially needs, is something again a little more eternal, a lot less fleeting.  A hug, a healing, a whisper, an embrace, a drink of blood-wine from the chalice cup beneath the cross.  A remembering. Uplifted.  Heart-upturned.  Rising-lifted from her chest and put back together again.

With a pulse returned.  Phathump. Phathump. Mmhmm.  Amen.