The truth of it
Nothing seems the way it is
for truth is often shy
a tadpole's frogsuit not yet his
nor worm yet butterfly
The sleepy bud on frozen twig
dreams in naught but green
must thus cruel winter's yoke renege
bold leaf when kissed by spring
So also then my weary heart
seeming once too torn to mend
by a winsome lover's gentle art
in wholeness beats again
This poem is about:
Me