He lounged on the end of the tea house sofa with a glass of wine in his hand

He smiled a shy smile, looking up from under his hooded eyes that sparkled with pride.

He spoke of love for the sweaty hippie girl that plodded a hill

Probably wearing braids.

He knew he wanted to embrace love,

He knew she would: be love, mother love, personify home.

When he speaks of his longing, it’s not of home, but for her.

He blesses her with words that only poets understand.

He begs for belief in his worthiness of her wonder, her coffee brown home.

I imagine her smiling at him, shaking her head with wisdom.

She knows. She understands. She sees. She loves this man.

I see the words he thinks of her, and I know he “gets it.”

He believes in her, trusts in her, and prays she understands.

I know she does. That he doesn’t, makes him want to work.

It makes him think of that woman he’s always loved.

That he will always love, that is worthy of everything because,

He’s never seen a mother that was willing to be as home to him as she.

She is his beloved