In A Basket

Your heart is picked, from an entrenched, woven basket

Your heart is picked, an in time elevated, no longer lying on its casket 

Your heart is picked, and it sees the room, the light, the dark, sees itself, by leaves surrounded, and the wind blows, and the rain drops, and the sun scorches, and beauty reigns

Vulnerability, from a tree grows, and it expands and salutes, roots it grows, 

Roots deep down into the space below, grabbing tight, unaware of what happens above, 

And chimes sound, clouds pass, and to a storm the wind, oh the surface wind, it blows,

And yet, the speed like a rollercoaster goes, vertical, vertigo, time sets and you don't own, 

You don't own time, space, future, 

suddenly, floating overtime, it all stops, 

ready you are to be dropped, 

Yet the space in the basket is gone, no same space to land, just the vast grass, 

Time rolls, you tumble, and chamomile finds you, to shush, to shoosh, to whoosh,  

Your heart gets picked, your heart does not, 

And willows go, and trees fall, while forests collapse, into one single trunk, wood chopped, constructions built... Again

Gratitude ought to root in, 

For the chance, the moments lived, 

Like nothing matters, 

like everything else, dissolve, 

Like the end of hope, at the start,

Where all of it, all of it green,

Is yet once more the one thing left

And your heart gets thrown, into a basket,

Woven,

For a grabber to hold, 

and never ever let it go