She’s no mealymouth art,
that damned mother of wordbirth—
nothing fickle about that old tart.
Honest as the odor of earth
true as you in all your affairs,
she is nothing—only your worth.
How you carry her loamy dares
to amend the alter altar
you’ve built of your damaged despair
will tell only the soily of the psalter
she’ll make with you of your prayer.
She’ll be false just where you falter.
In response to the Ragtag Community Daily Word “dream”.