by Frank James
Wednesday, October 15, 2003
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To my husband, my love.
You are the glove to my hand,
the taut stretched softness of my guiding
influence, which moves as I with
undulating eagerness, complementary
with our combined wishes.
You are the covering for my warmth
and protection, tender rough, soft wooing
wonder of my delight.
You are the strength and ever resilient
barricade against the element’s siege.
Without the glove, the hand is cold
Without the hand, the glove is empty
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