An Acorn, A Sapling

We
Fear showing heart's infant
From the womb that awoke.

Young
Fools forget
By time does love grow
And quickly proclaim
What they truly can't know.

But,
Are they yet fools
Saying "Beloved thou art."

Or
Wiser to treat
As if a landmark?

Yet,
Tho not mature
Those seeds still exist
Of growing, not falling,
In love that we risk.

So
Should I say I love you?
I dread a cold reply;

Worse,
Should I say I love you
And find a cruel reply;

"No,
I love you not
And never will."
And make me long to die.

Wounds from beloved hands cut deep
And linger long.
But though that knife be tinged with salt
I will return no wrong.

Yes.
Time proper is now,
Or silence of love will be as a lie.

An acorn, a sapling.
A sapling, an oak.
And so from our hearts
That infant awoke.