a heart is a heavy thing to have and hold

heavier still to gild and give

a granular gift so hard and cold

that if they strained it through a sieve

the harvest would be hardly worth the strain

the nectar next to nothing mostly grain

the heavy husk could never filter through

real love does not make room for the sublime

and yet although the heart of this is true

mundane miracles happen all the time

when husk and nectar are each others prizes

when each their selfsame heavy heart despises