My Heart, Where it has Never Been
On the notes of “My Heart is in The Highlands” by Arvo Pärt.
As I cross check in memory the four sentences
I have written — in search of content — about seasons, a girl, music, and her hair.
I must move.
Unsure if the wind can be called North, I glide with spirit
as the sweetest green sooths the scarred after flight skin, and
dissolves in matcha bourbon. I know, the soul is for the religious
and the spiritual. I, neither, can only imagine
higher grounds with the elevation of notes. Voices, and folk hearths.
New religion, bad religion, good religion. I pray for the Highlands.
In every sunset I bend my knees in devotion and imploration
my hands, closing palm to palm in hope not for heat
but the cold of a closing sun, and the bell sounds of the sheep.
As my feet touch ground, I too, am elevated. I too, have a heart of wool, and a contempt for the work of God. Which God? You’ll have to give it to me
some days, even what I don’t believe in is clear. During the light of the day, or
the light forgotten through the rain. And when the sheep will stop moving
kilometres away
I will sense it, I will hear it.
It’s time again, to go away. Just not there, and maybe not here.
As by spirit, my heart is in the Highlands.
