Ran across this phrase many moons ago, which inspired this:
My weight is my love.
—Augustine, Confessions, Book XIII-10
I sing a canticle of inner fire,
Melodic waves transpose me into deepest love,
Searching, seeking to rest in Love’s place.
My heart is transplanted there.
My heart beats on the altar there.
My heart burns in the furnace there.
My heart glows in the ashes there.
My heart aches in the empty there.
It has no weight until it beats in another’s chest?
The weight of my love burns but gives light.
It rises in degrees seeking its highest place.
It rests in the egg biscuit given to “Homeless and Hungry,”
as the morning star crowns the early sun.