My heart remembers being spun by hand

My heart remembers being spun by hand.
Soft hands that strung each thread through the swell and
In the warm center placed a grain of sand.

There lay my heart tied brightly with ribbon,
Fresh stitches stretched tight and carefully bound,
Dreaming of all it would soon be given.

If only poor heart had known its true fate,
The love and the malice that one soul knows,
Fraught with the power to crush and elate.

Certainly my heart would have broke and run,
And oh, were it so, that the fool had fled,
Evading the sorrow it has become.

It is the bounty of a storm-tossed tree,
A rosy tear wept from pink laden boughs,
Grieving for blossoms lost to windswept greed.

Rose thorn heart remember not this cruel pain,
For buried deep within your silken folds,
Lies strength our seamstress wove into each vein.

I pray when the perils of life are great,
The threads of our strength will not be broken
As you weather what storms chance will create.

Keep this promise close as beloved's band,
Dearest heart, we shall never be conquered.
For I remember being spun by hand.