Inside The Hearts' Walls

By W

Blackberry brambles
Such uncomfortable places.
Prickly, stickled, webbing in wings
Not letting them out.

To be picked is just another
Way of saying chosen.
There remains in all hearts
A honey drunk awe of it.

You who hibernate coolness,
Your day shall come.
So still for it, wait for it
To rest is, after all, one of many ways to praise.

Someday—yes—
        It
              Will
                      Find
                            You.

That growing warmth of ripened grace
When you know in each wondering burst
Of your body that your time has come

At last.
 
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This poem is our submission to the Commuter this week.