Not that you are handsome,
Even though you know all too well that you are,
Not that you are the lover of my dreams,
Though you know you are that too,
Not that you are the father of my children,
Born and unborn,
Not that you are the hard-working husband
That comes home to me every night,
Not that you can take me to heights and depths of my soul
That I never knew existed,
Not that you call me your whiskey girl
And your sweetheart,
Not that you love to wear a flower on your lapel
And suspenders that button on,
Not for every little smile and scowl and temper and tease
And touch and movement that makes you mine, all and always mine,
But most that when we were younger
And before you were mine,
You respected me,
And that before I was your girl
I was your lady:
For that I am always
Most gratefully
Yours.
3 comments:
This is lovely, Emily, both the words and the photo. What a precious time you evoke.
Dang, 'Emily'
My heart swells with an echo-ey sort happiness, when so little else can bring a smile.
Thank you for this glimpse of sunshine.
Love, Phil
And that before I was your girl
I was your lady
I love that part, for the realization it speaks of.
Thank you for sharing this, and your other poems here -- I've been reading them and liking the contemplative tone in them.
Cheers.
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