Whether it Becomes Beautiful

A moonlit lake with brilliant waterfalls,
Treading down to form ponds; bonds to the world:
Honesty is like this: pure and iridescent with truth, it spreads.
Trust is a tree:  it stretches itself as far as it can go, and
Shivers in delight with the wind; as though breezes were whispering
"Thank you" in green chlorophyll ears.
And there is a thing:
It is not divinely gorgeous, no; it is rather small and afraid
—At first. A seedling of a feeling, a tiny emotion,
But with strength like that of a dewy spider-web;
It becomes iron-steel cords once increased in size:
Let it grow and flourish and blossom.
This tiny one absorbs gentle warmth, births wings,
And flutters into your dreams.
The feathers flurry to a quick-beat,
Like a heart-flower, being murmured to by the wind.
Hope curls into the willowy silver of your soul;
An innocent, snowy dove, forming a nest just to be with you.
You are the mother of this hope, and it is your choice
On whether it becomes beautiful.