What stirs the heart, And changes countenance, So different from any gift? Deep within it radiates forth, Like a fine wine brewed, Slowly growing like a garden. The tiny seed planted, The tender chute come forth, The stem and leaves spread, And lastly the blossom. Most important is the root, That delves into the soil, Getting food and water. A parched and thirsty land, A wasteland wrapped in darkness, Shows the light more readily. For when we lack, The more we see we need, And more the cup to fill. A learned art, A fine wine, A colorful flower, Fruit come to ripeness sweetened, All an allegory, Of what happens to the soul, In Peace. Take care, Be ware, Of throwing off the balance, Yet if it does we say, "You have made a mistep,friend. Try again." The only tragedy, A soul who doesn't, Mend what's broke, And repair the breech. Listen to the voice, "My peace I give you, My peace I leave you, Not as the world gives." A state of being, A growth in progress, A fullness, This gift, Peace.
