sitting here
at the corner of my table—
the table i write at daily
but slightly offset
from most mornings—
writing about depression
and despair
and i see a heart
lightly etched into
this table
that came to us
secondhand

the heart could be a human marking
it could be a grain of the wood
it could be a scratch that so perfectly emulated
the hearts we draw
complete happenstance

but i find it
both sanguine
and sad
that while writing poetry
meant to allow
myself to feel those lulls of utter
darkness
i glance over
and see
a symbol
of hope