golden years

You’re prone to penning poetry,
since you have sensed the symmetry
that's hidden from most mortal eyes
behind a dull, but deft disguise:

The beauty of a leaf or bud,
the silence of a winding wood.
The echo in your deep heart’s core
that bids you love and hate no more.

You’re sensitive, some say a seer!
With prophet’s powers and eyes that peer
into the future, dark and deep,
where some will dance and some will weep.

Your mother raised you up on rhymes,
a child, who’s tasted troubled times.
Yet, through this valley’s veil of tears,
you’ve glimpsed the dawn of golden years!