Just because she doesn't cry,
Doesn't mean a thing.
What she's piddling with
Is a hainted heart.

Sometimes tears
Can't cause a river
Deep enough for a woman
To dip her haint of a heart in
--Not when she has lived too long
In such a short time.

What is the purpose of a tear
If not to soothe?
For her there is no soothing.

A woman can grow dry
Inside
Like burnt leaves,
Discarded among dead roots
Of hollow trees
Leaning naked in the wind.
Nature can be harsh.

Where do the sounds
Of a heart
That beats no more
Go?

She has a ghost
In her chest.
She has already
Let go.

Ain't nothing to do
With a heart like that,
But
Hold it close to you
and remember.

Whisper her tale
In the ears of your daughters.
Warn them.

A hainted heart is a terrible thing.
Tell them not to piddle
With their hearts.
Tell them
Not to ever let go.