Metamorphosis

Over the course of it's multicolored life, the heart will possess many different attributes and faces. Each reincarnation is caused by of a sense of brokeness and loss. After such loss occurs the heart will be born again. First, it will drag itself awkwardly upward into an animalistic pose on all fours, then it will graduate to sitting postition, it will stumble around like an infant for awhile, then as if yanked up with a marrionette's strings it will take it's first steps. Slowly, it will find it's voice and learn the power of words. It will swing on the swings in the park, laughing freely; calling, "higher higher! I want to fly!" It will jump from a tree that was too high and skin it's knees; crying it will crawl into my open arms. It will grow older. It will paint on blank canvases of the purest white. It will read many great books and someday it will remember how to feel things again. Maybe it will happen when it hears the first russet notes of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, or maybe when it finds a golden leaf in the hood of its coat, or when it runs barefoot through the snow; twirling about, hands raised, palms upturned, eyes closed. Things will come back to it, course through it like water, altering the color of it's mind. It will expiericence moments of immeasurable sadness as well as moments of incandescent happiness. It will love and touch and kiss. It will play. It will take a picture of a boy, who turned around at just the right moment to smile at it; the picture will be placed carefully at the bottom of a memory chest and then locked. It will take out the picture and think of times when everything was simple. It will grow older and delight to have it's arms filled with squirmming children. It will smell of amber and jazmine, just for the boy. It will sing on it's back porch when the stars come out. It will grow older and wrinkled and tired. It will sit down under the sprawling oak in it's yard and nestle deeper into the emerald grass. It will wear a black veil over it's red eyes, when the boy leaves for Neverland. It will wander and be lost into itself. Gradually, like a butterfly, it will shut it's wings for the last time and enfold itself into slumber's capable embrace. It will leave the earth flying, wings gloriously outstretched, yearning for a place in eternal sunshine; waiting to be brought back to life by a intricate dichotomy of a word. A word called love.

-Whit