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 beneath my ribs.
.
by Wislawa Szymborska
from Wislawa Szymborska, Poems new and Collected
Harcourt Brace, 1998