…the shy unfold of an embrace…

how innocent (the way a rose is shy)
the one that slowly bids a sun to smile
and linger in the rising (just a while)
to keep its light for one; and that is why
their only secret is the silence (no reply
or parlance will defy that bond) whose wiles
are just the beads of dew (just like a child
whose morning-nascent tears have yet to dry)
and oh how innocent the shy unfold
of an embrace (the mother is the sun;
the child just one small flower) whose dying cold
is just the birth of youthful warmth; so must
the innocence be fragile and the run
of time will break all innocence to dust.

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