my eyes always open first
the morning does not woo him
the way it does me
so day after day I study
how he sleeps.
lips parted, soft breathing
his large and calloused hand
beside his slack mouth or maybe
loosely wrapped around the
bedpost. And I marvel at
how a person so powerful can
seem like such a small
and tender boy, vulnerable.
he will wake, he
will follow the structure of his
routine, he will hold it
the muscles of his broad back will ripple
under the strain of building a life,
will yield to him.
he will spend his day conquering.
and my hours will fill with nurturing and
creating and he will not even know
that it began with my lips
brushing across his sleep-cooled
forehead, my heart consuming
marveling at the vulnerability of
a sleeping mountain.