when the storms have gone
but the rivers run
to the places raging
makes them go;

when the worst that was
is the wreck that is,
and highest high
is still mostly low —

when the lava spilled
on the ruined earth
leaves a thousand holes
for new weeds to grow,

then the heart that sees
and the eyes that feel
are in union still
with the afterflow.

when the holy day
and the sacred night
can arise from under
misused sheets,

when to make it out
to a field of rocks
and retain your mind
are amazing feats,

when the slaps and stings
of the loss of love
leave you feeling each
of a life’s missed treats,

if you listen, soft,
you can hear, and know:
it’s the afterflow
of a heart

that beats