Come Unto Her
Come unto her not with pious words from a pulpit’s herd of unsure-footed sheep. Rather, come unto her with deeds that her lamb needs, your bloody knee spurs speak to hers.
Come unto her not with raw, self-inflicted wounds that you claim, in bitter blame, are the fault of another. Rather, come unto her healed from your past tangled trauma.
Come unto her when your bleeding has stopped…not dripping a drop. She will only suture her own; done nurturing the needy.
Come unto her not with an ego of eggshells, nor a simmering swankpot’s cherry-flavored charm. Rather, come unto her with the simple pride of a stable hand whose steed is always a ribbon winner.
Come unto her not as a sinner in fancy finery, bearing bestowals from far shores roamed. Rather, come unto her with threads of a thrasher boy who has traveled from home to crop, and chanced to stop to pick her a pretty pansy.
Come unto her not like a dreary dullard, nor burdened by the pseudoscience of stately scholars. Rather, come unto her with savoir faire; humble hat-tipping to those of both high flair and famine.
Come unto her not with sunny, invasive color of a dandelion’s deception; a weed that poses as a posy. Rather, come unto her with word spoken truths as ferocious as a lion’s tooth.
Come unto her not like a weak-kneed weed that sways and spreads seeds like dried nettle. Rather, come unto her with admired mettle; the fortitude of an oak whose rings can no longer be counted.
Come unto her stronger than the man that you think you could be. She will soon see that you are much more than your best possibility.
Copyright © Rhoda Tripp | Year Posted 2019
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