as it is

I see them everywhere, hearts. In cumulous clouds and sunflower leaves. In thinly sliced strawberries and the dark hollow of a split hickory nut.  I see them in white bird shit splattered on a bench, these symmetrical kissing curves designated as an ideograph for love.  And how many hundreds of heart rocks have I slipped into my pockets to bring home like sedimentary and igneous proofs of love manifest in matter.  I don't know when I stopped collecting the rocks, finding more joy in picking them up and displaying them trailside so others could delight in them, too.  Later, I took pictures of the hearts where I found them, wanting not to disturb, perhaps trusting that love shows up exactly where it is needed most. Now, when I see them, I will most likely smile to myself as I walk by, no longer needing to stockpile or keep a record. Still, it surprises me every time, the joy of loving things just as they are, the joy of leaving things whole.

by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer