I know what I do not know
when my woman holds me,
tells me she loves me, not
for what I can no longer give,
but for the man I've been and am.
She knows I do not know
how to love the way she can
and does, and still loves me
the only way she knows.
Aware of just how small is
the seed of trust I sow,
she waters, shelters,
coaxes the thin weak sprout
and begs me not to fear her.
She did not take the name
of an aging, broken man,
but holds it as proudly
as she holds my hand
while walking at my side.
I know that I do not know
how she knows what she knows
and still can love as deeply
as only she knows how.