by Lisa Marie Harmon
His eyes are gentle, glancing toward her face:
Abashed to hold her gaze, they are not bold.
His confidence slips in and out of Grace:
Yet within the man, a will that keeps it's hold.
His words, like honey, stick, struggle to flow.
The sweetest of them, only God has heard.
His heart knows secrets her heart needs to know.
He prays there really is a little bird.
For lack of words he offers up his form.
In sacrifice, a Greater Love has he.
Each limb and muscle pressed against the storm;
No harbor safer than his arms could be.
The white winged Dove does whisper in her ears;
All to the man she gives, joys, tears, and years.
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