Love Poem
Forget about supportive.
You make collapse possible,
disintegration a reasonable
alternative, falling to pieces
a waystation, respite.
I don’t know about safety
in numbers; I’m sure of only one
port in a storm.
The well of your chest smells
of fleur de sel, and carries a kiln
that fires all clay new.
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Here’s a nearly belated 55 for the lovely G-man. I am also posting for the dVerse Poets Pub Poetics prompt re peace, hosted by Mary Kling.
Note – the picture above is not of my dear husband. For one thing, when he wears a tie, he tends also to wear a jacket.
ManicDDaily 
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