When I describe him my words escape into the lingering mist after the rain– my love makes art from his breath and leaves water colors in his foot prints.

He is thoughtful like the coiled necks of daffodils. He is spirited like the stepping by the sink that’s always waiting. He’s the smirk of the skyline on a night in May that feels like August. He is as lighthearted as rainbow sprinkles caked onto melting vanilla soft serve.

This morning I’m approximating proof of a God with his existence– what a God to make so much from silt and clay.

In the folds of his hands he formed my love– a kitchen counter prophet– a late night show philosopher.

He paints me with watercolors and kisses me like daffodil petals.