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

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