With her fingers she turns paint <br />into flowers, with her body <br />flowers into a remembrance <br />of herself. She is at work <br />always, mending the garment <br />of our marriage, foraging <br />like a bird for something <br />for us to eat. If there are thorns <br />in my life, it is she who <br />will press her breast to them and sing. <br /> <br />Her words, when she would scold, <br />are too sharp. She is busy <br />after for hours rubbing smiles <br />into the wounds. I saw her, <br />when young, and spread the panoply <br />of my feathers instinctively <br />to engage her. She was not deceived, <br />but accepted me as a girl <br />will under a thin moon <br />in love's absence as someone <br />she could build a home with <br />for her imagined child.<br /><br />Ronald Stuart Thomas<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-way-of-it/
