Essence of My Joy: Acceptance
I caressed her loving hands devotedly.
She let me examine them patiently
before taking up my face,
deciphering it nimbly like the artist she was
until I felt self-conscious and stopped her.
Her hands were more mature than I recalled,
appearing older than her true age.
They were like the hands of the real artist
who was not yet born in me.

Suddenly I knew I'd been indifferent too long.
Impaled on self-disgust and unable to run,
I turned my face away from her.
When she asked if she'd upset me I whirled round,
my look reflecting my rage at myself.
Shocked but tolerant, she absorbed that from me.
She put out her arm and touched my lips
with compassionate fingers,
owning me when she said in a trembling voice,
"Come in the house."

(Edwin Hopson)