In the hothouse
Fated the nightingale, the faithless rose
to forsake for the Maker of roses.
Such a leap comes about
only in timid, painful increments
here and there of mud-caked creatures.
The draw of bodies, the comely flesh
alter over time to the allure of human courage,
innate goodness, virtue and fidelity.
Clay to clay, we play with fire,
explore our capacities, pay the price
for the glamour, extravagant promises
of our budding, adulterated love
until love becomes purely the only tie that binds.
Then come, o Lord of Love, to wield Your axe!
O child of God, in the hothouse of human love
the heart tends and refines the timorous rose.