the weight and measure of her heart

I know if I could take her heart
in my hands,
and hold it,
raw and beating,
I would see it's vastness
expanding
larger than the world headlines
she reads after school;
it's immenseness more
infinite than the stars
she questions,
forever and with no end.
and in my hand
it would be both
lighter than air,
buoyed by
a bubbling effervescence
of baby-sister giggles,
and
darker than dark,
weighted down
with atoms of anxiety,
concerns swirling,
into silent vortexes
of pandemic worry.

(I know this because
I have held her,
and these are her
weights and measures)

(unfinished)