To My Heart On Sunday
Thank you, my heart:
you don't dawdle, you keep going
with no flattery or reward,
just from inborn diligence.
You get seventy credits a minute.
Each of your systoles
shoves a little boat
to open sea
to sail around the world.
Thank you, my heart:
time after time
you pluck me, separate even in sleep,
out of the whole.
You make sure I don't dream my dreams
up to that final flight,
no wings required.
Thank you, my heart:
I woke up again
and even though it's Sunday.
the day of rest,
the usual preholiday rush
continues underneath my ribs.
.
by Wislawa Szymborska
from Poems New and Collected 1957-1997
Harcourt Brace, 1998