I scout ahead.
It is hard going for her
But I must remain out of sight.
If it took money
Then I could buy her
But coin falls far short
It is a matter of the heart
And I grieve
Because although I can touch her soul
I can mark the path
These matters of the heart
Have not yet quite found warm ground.
How carefully I choose my words!
They are my trowel
My actions I guard,
Like corn through the winter.
No comments:
Post a Comment