It wasn't a war zone
Or a junkyard pile
But it wasn't a home -
Hadn't been for a while.
The garden had run wild
Not dead - too alive
Untended, feral child
A fight to survive
Then into my life,
Through the briar and thorn
Came this beautiful wife,
Like a smile or a dawn.
She quietly caresses
With a feminine heart
Transforming, she blesses
With a magical art.
The woman she weaves
A new world every day
And the home somehow breathes
As she sings on her way.
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 1:06 PM UTC
It wasn't a war zone
Or a junkyard pile
But it wasn't a home -
Hadn't been for a while.
The garden had run wild
Not dead - too alive
Untended, feral child
A fight to survive
Then into my life,
Through the briar and thorn
Came this beautiful wife,
Like a smile or a dawn.
She quietly caresses
With a feminine heart
Transforming, she blesses
With a magical art.
The woman she weaves
A new world every day
And the home somehow breathes
As she sings on her way.
