Hope turns slowly into realization
As children slowly grow into themselves.
Perhaps some remnant fantasy rebels.
Perhaps one should revise one's expectation.
Yet children owe one's dreams no explanation,
For one must heed the tale that fortune tells
And greet the prodigal with joyful bells
That render the sweet song of the relation.
Have no illusion: Love is like a tide
Ebbing and flowing through the channeled heart,
Returning, turning as some smiling moon
'Mid bits of shattered glory makes its way.
So must one with unremitting pride,
Destined for a quintessential part,
Attempt to harmonize that complex tune,
Yielding, shaping, listening to it play.