She is Spring to my Winters gloom
Sunrise to my darkest nights
In her, my withered self blooms
See, one could say I am fragile
In her agile way, she says I’m tender
With patient ear she listens
With loving self she restores
Swerving the debris of masochism
Scrubbing low self esteem
Shaking the shackles of guilt
Shifting focus from fault
She gleans the ruins for beauty
I am earth, dust, dirt
She is a skilled sculptor
Picasso with an artist eye
In me she sees color, form, tone
In gratitude and reverence
Let me be her masterpiece
Lovely.