I could never capture
the face of the one I love
with a paintbrush.

The thin strokes of midnight
which adorn his eyes by the hundreds
would never be fully justified
by my inartistic hand.

I could never capture
the blades of winter grass
that sprout from his face
and dot his cheeks,
bundling around his jawline
sporadically,

Nor the cluster of roses
that attach themselves
at his apples,
and around his nose.

Constellations
are strewn about his face
as if the stars had fallen on to
the snow covered hills
and valleys
that make up his visage.

Though he is not without blemish,
to me he is perfection;
as if God created him
from divine clay
and holy water,
and sent him to me
to place under my care and affection,

So when the porcelain cracks,
or the swirls of earth above his head
lose their shine,
I will be there,
with chisel and brush in hand
to fill in the crevasses
and repaint forgotten smiles,
and to remind him
that he is beautifully
and wonderfully made.