Fragile as a flower,
Yet strong enough to bend,
Her beauty is my power,
That which she has within.

Though she suffers dully,
All of the wrongs of late,
Her wisdom tells her fully,
The friend in this is fate.

This wonder treads so fairly,
Her steps are firm and sure.
Her shoulders proud sit squarely
Her love for me is pure.

So how could one dare test her,
Whose folly need she endure?
The poor fit of fears so ugly
To even those she offers cure.

How can wrongs of fellow man
Spill upon her shores of sand.
It's hard to grasp, to understand
These storms that scar her land.

Does not this woman give her all?
Does not she tell it so?
Fickle not, she owns the spot
where my soul so longs to go.



Copyright 1999, by Steve Sloan