Love Letter #29: (Better Half)

You are the poem
dripping from my hands,

strong arms
waiting to catch me-
pick me up when I fall.

I always wondered
what the bough of a weeping willow
would be like,
all those days I spent
watching limbs sway and bend,
sway and bend,

but never break.

You are those limbs

holding me up,
but, never taking the bows.

I can stir the pot,
press out the wrinkles,
finish your sentences,
with dots,

like pretty flowers
all in a row,

but, I can never stand tall,
like you do;
you mighty oak
with the heart of a weeping willow.

Be still, my heart,
yes, you,
when I see you, humble,
hands, folded in prayer;
those brown eyes,
melting mine.

Yes, you are the poem,

but you always make me
the title.



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