Here you will find the Poem The Way of It of poet Ronald Stuart Thomas
With her fingers she turns paint into flowers, with her body flowers into a remembrance of herself. She is at work always, mending the garment of our marriage, foraging like a bird for something for us to eat. If there are thorns in my life, it is she who will press her breast to them and sing. Her words, when she would scold, are too sharp. She is busy after for hours rubbing smiles into the wounds. I saw her, when young, and spread the panoply of my feathers instinctively to engage her. She was not deceived, but accepted me as a girl will under a thin moon in love's absence as someone she could build a home with for her imagined child.