Lines

the lines on his face tell me a poem,
of the three-before-three trips to emergency:
the gentle dog who bit him
the coffee table collision
the tumbling off railroad tie;
another scar where football scramble
was prayed over, no stitches and healed anyway;
his eyes crinkle like a pleated skirt when he laughs
and i wish i'd carved them all myself.
his dimples drew me in, "hoyuelos" i said on an early date
and i trace them every night in my sleep,
kiss those parenthesis, all mine, gentle scruff scratching me.
those furrowing lines of pressure and worry
no botulism could ever straighten out
and i know he holds us in his thoughts, his
high proud forehead
all the time
and i love him for his lines

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(241-256 of counting gifts with Ann and others on this journey)

so grateful for the love of my life.
for his patience as daddy and
ability to be jungle gym
b/cs i can't.
for his patience and grace with me
and holding my hand always
for his worry for our needs
and his strength to carry it all
for his searching heart
even when i don't understand
and his laugh that literally keeps me sane sometimes
for his work and ethic to work
even when he doesn't like his job
for his urgency in providing
for providing all these little boys
for the love we make and share
and the oasis in a difficult time we were able to have this weekend,
no getaways, just staying, and being present
and connecting in a way we haven't in a really long time
and always, always, the Grace of the Beloved
in providing me with the helpest of mates,
knowing exactly what i needed and desired.