A Man's Shrine... Poem by Robert Mutsaers

How I lamented his lest,
Making a tender skin
Way above the zest; ,
Of a my inherited sin.

I saw here and in the aftermath;
Lessons of our confidence;
Like spring in late summer when,
Shared life benigns the ambivalence.

Tell me that his sister is spoiled,
Tell me she does not really mind;
That the best is still to come,
And we may be amazed,
Whenever we will joy.

How I rejoiced his quest,
Making a stronger spine
Way above the crest;
For my admired shrine.

Tell me that the vicar is coiled
Tell me he does not carry wind;
That the crest is yet the dome,
And we are to amaze,
Whenever we will sorrow.

I saw here and with the interplay;
Lessons of our penitence;
Like early spring in summer when,
Revealed life adheres to presence.