Precious Poem by Quenten McClellan

She is the angel in the rough,
Hiding in the thick brush
Under the dust and flame
Until she shines the same.

Her eyes wonder this world.
And look to me with tire.
But why is my heart curled,
With the whimper of desire?

Under her skin
she isn't cold
Veins pump blood
to the hidden heart of gold!

The Precious molding
Of her being
Is never scolding
Always freeing.

With her touch
My mind dwells heavily,
With and endless crutch
In an enchanting reverie.

Will my prayer
Come through
With fun and gleam

Will she be a truth
Or a silly dream?