Beauty is truth’s smile
when she beholds her own face
a perfect mirror
Spring, blazoned in beauty,
helps me grasp the gift grace is—
A recurrent touch of truth’s
promise that life has time to smile
and will always answer my impatient, “When?”
My mother’s praising-purple violet patches she
planted just for beauty’s sake, each one beholds
me as buds myself. I forever thank her.
In gratitude I plant violets of my own
and watch them melt winter’s “too long” face.
I witness them spritefully sprout in
clumps of charming cheer and proclaim a
pledge, so eternally pure, of an ever-perfect
presence that my whole self can’t help but mirror.