When she sits next to you, small and broken in a crumpled paper dress
Humiliated by the ravages of her own body
Tell her she’s never been more fiercely beautiful
When she rages like a torrential wind, fury whipping, felling trees and hurling gravel,
And when the storm passes from her spirit, wipe her tears and call her sunshine
Make her cups of tea.
Remember that she isn’t yours. Not really. She belongs to her mission,to her passions, and to her dog. Accept this.
Make her skin sing and never stop touching her. When passion ebbs, rub her feet, kiss her knees, especially the one that creaks when it bends. Trace the lines on her face and rejoice in how time has written itself there.
And when her face is a river, feed her mundane acts of devotion
Do the dishes, walk the dog, go to the store.
Make love while you sweep the floor, shovel the walk, tuck her in.
Do not be afraid that her ice blue eyes resemble an isolated lake
She will return.
Love isn’t a stone, it needs to be made fresh daily, like bread.