rolling
gathering the moss which clings
to the cold, damp, rock-like substance
of my stony heart

turning
shaping endlessly with your chiselled tools
rounding the sharp edges
of my timber heart

blending
all of those primary colours
that run together on the palette
of my painted heart

shaping
wet hands slipping on unstructured clay
forming the simple shape
of my sculpted heart

calculating
finite and infinite multiplicities
the days are numbered
of my problematic heart

praying
hands together, eyes tightly closed
flattened palms invoking the spirit
of my blessed heart

XpoppyX