Roses ask me to be good and kind
to myself.
Is this really so hard that I've forgotten
momentarily
what good and kind mean?
That good is the sun breaking through the darkness of twilight.
That kind is the heart of my husband, his hand in mine.
Roses ask me to forgive what was lost.
To think of myself as the
Creatress that I am.
And will be again and again.
Such soft plant whispers,
like kisses for my crinkled soul.
No comments:
Post a Comment