We

In honor of 20 years of marriage,  a poem - of sorts- for he who shares with me this blessed and imperfect life. 




WE

Theirs is not a house of lovewords. They do not dwell in feverish proclaims.

Unspent and stilled unpromises and dreamspeak. Unplayed the mired games.

Their movements startle watchers. No meter to their gate.

They have not melded into one. No mystic newborn state.



So what is this that they call “marriage”? What persists for twenty years?

Through done and undone, sung and silent, loss and dogged fears?

He is dreamer built of stone, he is maker, he is stream.

And she is fragile as a tea cup, yet she is his iron beam.



And so they live lives not yet lived, plagued not by fame or glory

They fold unfold, sigh and sweat. They mate. This is their story.

He who is patient and she who is wild. He who is unbound and free

They build a way with love not words. They practice love. They become We.