Though I can never know
the machinations of another’s thought,
though I can’t know
the mazes their heart gets lost in,
I can know the nature of the heart itself,
that clear and liquid thing
whose surface trembles
but whose inner depth
if full and pure and still,
quenching every thirst that finds it,
sending out its searchlight signals,
waiting to be found.

©Wendy Mulhern
March 8, 2018