Heart That Wants to be Shorn of Sadness

I, too, want my next poem to be happy;
to use a word like uncanny, but only to mean
mysterious and not unsettling. To make
water or mist or fog not have to stand
for anything except themselves: no
longer for a sorrow that doesn't lift,
a longing that's never filled.
A shoot I couldn't identify sprang up
beside the flowering citrus in its pot;
its white buds were just about
to open. Even the leaves exuded
some trace of their delicate perfume.
I pulled out the intruder and its thin
roots were folded around a little dark
thing like a bead or a chicken heart.
Why did I still feel defeated,
lowering it into the trash?

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