When first I met that frightened little mite
she’d barely look me squarely in the eye.
A suit of armour fit her body tight,
so cupid’s arrows she could nullify.
You see, a microscopic spear was thrown
which caught that rosy flower off her guard.
It pierced the tender spot where love is grown
so confidence and poise were badly scarred.
But yet, in spite of all the damage done
her beauty has increased a thousandfold.
A healing process in her had begun,
transcending any spearful stranglehold.
For often, wounds which seem to us austere
are given to us so we persevere.
© Alan Morrison, 2014