My husband whose hair is
a ripple from the midnight river

whose laughter is the glow
of noonday sun on the ocean

whose hands are the breeze across
my face and the thunder in the earth

my once sailor who now works the earth
and sweats the salty sea from his pores

my green man whose hands,
both gentle and strong, nurture plants.

whose tanned skin in summer shines
with sweat palpable and real
over lean muscles
formed through loving labor

my husband whose eyes are the dark
sky before rain and the glistening
trees after

whose eyes are those of a sea lion
an eternity deep

whose soul is molded to mine
like cupped hands dipping water

whose soul refreshes my soul
like a drink from a mountain stream

whose soul goes with me always
running through me like a river...

I said to myself,
   "Someday soon you will
     be dead and gone.
     Your consciousness dissolved.
     Forever."

Myself replied,
   "What does this mean?
     I have no experience
     with which to relate."

"This is true," I acknowledged, "but
     you possess imagination
     and thus may conceive
     of opposites."

"Yes," Myself agreed, "but
     imagination can only construct
     with what has been received.
     To conceive of
     the void of all conception
     is beyond my parameters."






- fr