Him

The poet doesn't tell you
That it's a husband.

Instead she tells you
That he's a porter,
Carrying in groceries
And furniture
And her dreams.

She tells you
that he cares for the flowers
And nurtures them
And waters them
And watches to make sure they
Don't get scorched
And they get rain
And wind
And pretty pots.

She doesn't tell you that
Sometimes she feels like
One of his flowers.

The poet doesn't tell you
that he's a husband.
Instead, she tells you
That he's a woodworker.
That he carves beauty
Out of planks of wood
And looks for
Imperfections
As marks of character
And distinction
And showcases them
And centers them
And prays as he works
That others will see
What he sees.

She doesn't tell you
That sometimes
She feels like
A plank of wood
in his hands.

The poet doesn't tell you
That he's a husband.

No, he's a storyteller
Who can pull the most
Interesting part of the story
From the rubble of details
And make you see
The meaning in just the
Best few words
And make you see the joy in
What someone else thought
Uninteresting.

She doesn't tell you
That sometimes
she feels like a story he is telling,
And that he sees all
The best parts
And understands the
Importance of the worst ones
And he weaves her together
Into a riddle that
Finally makes sense.

The poet doesn't tell you
That he is strong
And kind
And that
She's been blossoming
Under his care
For these many years.

She just lives it
With him.