My Prospero, my blue-eyed man of the island.
You who rage against the ships that pass and throw rocks into the sea.
My Lover, my dark-haired Aries of the glen.
You who touch me with feather lightness and breath soft into my ear.
You who moves the bed to a place below the window, so that we wake to gentle light of dawn across the meadow. You who watch the deer step soft across dew-stained grass in silence, leaving their split-toed prints like magic drawn into the earth.
You who speaks to me each night, words of your life, an open book with blank pages waiting for rewrites that come with understanding.
You who lives inside my heart, my soul.
And who am I? Your Ariel, your Caliban?
She who carries your firewood and does your bidding on the wind.
Your Miranda? The one to lie with head in your lap, sweet dreams in the safety of you.
Or am I your Tempest? The one to rock you on your moorings and bring the shipwreck to your shore.
We are the sea and the sand, the meadow and the sky, the deer and the footprints crossing the meadow, leaving marks to disappear in the bright sunlight.
We are the light and shadow of storm crossed waves, the calm of glassy water, driftwood anchored on the beach. We are shards of broken glass worn smooth by the tides, pulled by the phases of the moon. We are our pasts and our futures, inextricably linked skin-to-skin.
You my Prospero, my blue-eyed man of the island and I, your safe harbor in the eye of the storm.