A ship in the harbor,
Under repair.
A Doe in the thicket,
Painfully aware,

That swirling waters
of beckoning seas
And softened voices
that put one at ease,

Are beautiful, true,
Yet one may not yield.
Until it is time,
To lower her shield.


There are times, and seasons, and a purpose, to everything under heaven.
A time to be wounded.
And a time to heal.

No man who loves wisdom rushes healing.
No man.
No woman.


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