I live you
breathe you
love you, but
seldom write
poems about you.
The sun shines
without being
written.
The air moves,
invisible life,
never seen.
You
are the flow
of these
necessities
through me.
You are soil
holding my roots
in place,
nourishment
written
in your name.
Your face –
my memory.
Your arms –
my home.
Otherwise, my
spirit filled with
gypsy blood –
too crazy, too unorthodox
for the masses –
burns.
You are
all the deep-true
things that carry
me. I thought
it was time to
write a poem
for you – So
this is yours,
husband.
Small Pieces of Being 
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