Nothing Heals Faster

Sitting on my creaking rocking-chair Saying to my son, youngest of four Yes to your question and the air of passion is the budding rose As tender as the flesh of young babies Forgiving than a mother her child Wilder than broncos Selfish as dogs Putting all in a basket of life Marriage of love is the bed of roses Where the power of the roses Withstands the prickles of brambles So to say son Hard you may see it Wildness would erupt Where it lay extinct And passion of great ferocity shall frighten you But there always is The bed of roses to lie on