A Spring of Joy

He breezed in the back entrance
carrying lunch
and discovered me curled up
on the couch,
tears streaming, and
eyed me
quizzically.

“I love you.”

It was all that would pour
forth from my
full heart.
I laughed softly, then told him
I was inhaling poetry.

He smiled and
sat down, he
listened
while I read stanza after stanza
of love, tragedy,
love, home,
and more love.

He is not a man of many words
but he shares my love for them.
He understands
my desperation to read
them aloud
to hear words
whirl off my tongue.

He is not a man of many words,
but he comprehends
the importance of them,
the exquisite magic of
poetry.

He doesn’t write them
to me,
words,
he is not wired
that way,
and I don’t expect it
from him,
but he reads them
with me.

And he writes countless words
with his life.

I hear the rhythm of his
poetry every day,
lyrical verses
that tone constantly with
his love.