Written on a cold day after a hot quarrel.
I hang a ball each day
upon a homely tree
wishing that bright array
would help to make you see
To see beyond the gnarls
and spindly trunk so bent
the meaning of our spats
and other words misspent
Love is not a pretty thing
like many things that grow
yet with care it can bring
a joy only lovers know
The joy of a whole in parts
with many breaks and rendings
yet knowing in our hearts
the strength of mendings
Farmers sow a thousand seeds
Spring, Summer and Fall
then reap a million weeds
before Winter kills them all
As cold, frost and snow set in
the ice reflects our dream
not a love that might have been
but a living tree, ever green.
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