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?

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, 
Not to ever let go.