The man I love is not a man of poetry. He has a native eloquence, no doubt, but it is not poetry. If poetry is a cathedral, he speaks in gardens. If poetry is a garden, he speaks in trees.

This used to bother me. I've loved many a poet, and after all, who doesn't want a sonnet composed in her honor? It used to bother me because it felt like somehow I'd suddenly ceased being worthy of poetry. It made me hesistant to write poetry for him; eventually made me hesitant to write poetry at all.

The man I love is not a man of poetry; he is a man of deep tenderness and compassion, a man full of romanticism and silliness, a man of unbending integrity. It used to bother me that he would not bend that integrity for me. I was used to pushing the men I loved and used to them flexing to accommodate. I thought that meant they loved me; I thought I was suddenly no longer worthy of that kind of love.

What a thing to discover that he could stand up straight and that I could meet him there. What a thing to discover that his particular and straightforward speech lets him say what he means, and that he will in fact say it. That he remains always himself, and that by refusing to compromise that self he honors rather than undermines our love. And that he will accept my poetry with a smile. As he accepts me.