I carry your heart with me. (I carry it in my heart.)
I'd like to go to a Sara Groves concert this morning, or be able to carry the whole heart of her songs in my heart somehow. Tara Becker picked Zach Taylor and I up on our cross-country skis last night after we'd passed down through my grandparents property, beside the small boy testing his new skis in the dim night light, through the thick brush of uncleared property, through someone's backyard, and over two slippery fence posts in order to clear their wires. I jammed my toes into the front of my ski boots when I landed and I regretted the jump instantly. We followed the faint depression of a snowmobile track through the stubble of fields that didn't belong to us, on a journey that did. And truly nothing around me is mine. Only the heart I carry when I am passing through, jamming my toes, hearing the howl of coyotes across the fields in winter.