There will be days during which your heart feels like an abandoned house at the end of a long gravel road.

You shouldn’t go there, but you do, furtively. Anxiously. You have no business there, but the trash and detritus of squatters — a mattress, the empty tins, worse — these call for a witness.

What you don’t expect, of course, is love.

To be ambushed, laid low, crushed to the grass by the intoxicating scent of muscadines growing wild.

The clicking (what? what?) of your stuttering heart — or the cicadas which have climbed out of the dirt after seven years in the grave, croaking in astonishment.

This is the beginning of grief, this place of shattered glass and exposed boards.

Or the awakening of love? Is that it?

So hard to distinguish between them, and possibly not worth the effort.

Creative Commons photo by Homestead and Gardens

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