Projection

My heart is a curved glass
that hope is filtered through—
and shaped unlike what passes in,
as morning light through dew,
it casts a light onto the world
shaped like something new.

When my fragile heart was cast
with nature’s blind intent,
I do not think its purpose was
to be her instrument.
The little things it amplifies
are curiously bent.

The things that dance in microscopes
are real enough to me.
My heart’s the only thing I have
if I would hope to see
those things the microscope would miss—
discerned less easily.