I would walk a mountain’s path
However deep, or cold, or long;
I would write the finest sonnet
– or the sweetest song,
If that was what love called me so to do.
I endure, and oft surprised
By all my love would give to you.
A young man’s lifetime I have given
An old man’s lifetime stored inside;
And all between, and in the meanwhile,
– smiles, and whispers nuzzling pride;
Shared work, vibrant embraces – but, my love, till then
Endurance that would scale the highest mountain,
or would write the sweetest love song by it’s pen.
Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
Like a crocus, hidden deep
Buried beneath cold hard ground,
A bulb beneath crumbling earth
Feeling the chill regress,
The earth – thaws.
Reaching, seeking, yearning for light;
For hope is not insensible
It is rooted, fed, nurtured
– sleeping, but instinctive to life
to it’s call: sunlight, bright
rain, cool breezes, heat and warmth
the yearning to embrace, and grow
Brightly, fully into
Hope, of freedom.
Hope, of joy.
Hope, of flowering