Kiss These Wounded Paws by Gilman Mom
“So change me,” he whispers in youth and ignorance. But she was not his to change. Nor was the wind, flowers or trees that hugged his gentle face. Budding soil from pots of idealism. He cannot force his ways unto her. She is her own flower. He is his own trapping. With time and perseverance he will awaken, one day as bright as she.