You give me your trees as a shade -

your mountains, your streams and your glades.

The smell of your Body fills me with delight.

My soul cuddles up to yours every night.

You're more than a lover to me.

You're more than a lover could ever be.

I love the way you've covered your Heart,

and I love the way you exhibit your Art;

the way you caress me with the wind in my hair,

and kiss me so sweetly with the warmth in the air.

You're more than a lover to me.

You're more than a picture of my fantasy.

They try to tell me that you don't exist -

as I watch the veins swell that you placed on their wrist,

as their longing transmogrifies into a fist.

They say that I turn to you when I'm in trouble,

and it's true when I wander there's a need to redouble.

And sure there are days when I think "I don't know",

but then you reappear in the Cry of a Crow,

in the Shape of the Mountain,

in the Tracks in the Snow.

You're there -

everywhere that I look -

in the tiniest leaf you've written a book!

In winter you show me your need to uncover,

your infinite patience as you slowly recover.

There's no coincidence -

just conversation.

And there is no evidence -

just presentation.

We all call you by so many names

born of intimate anger,

and personal shame.

But love is letting you be who you are

and not calling you names

'cause we've wandered so far.

And though I really love you

I don't want you to myself.

How could we be happy

if one soul was left on the shelf?

You're more than a lover to me.

You're more than a lover could ever be.

© Felicity Buirski 1989.