From the Cobwebs: Harbinger

I wrote this poem sometimes in the 'digits' (2000-2010).  My brother, Douglas Paul, introduced the word 'harbinger' to me and a very handsome, intelligent, likeable fellow inspired me to the content of this 'prose poem' by his complete and utter awesomeness!  Thanks, TBP!!  By the way, none of this happened with HIM, but he was so awesome and respectful of me that I--at the time--kinda hoped it would! :)  LOL

~He sees me, and he is my friend.

I love the boy--the wild child--in him. His mischievous grin melts my heart. I feel it's pitter patter begin when I see his outstretched hand inviting the wild child inside of me to "come out and play."
~He sees me, and he respects me.
He knows I have a brain and he appreciates the fact that I can think for myself. He is no Monsieur Gaston, smiling into a mirror whilst he throws my books into the rubbish bin and then pats me on my pretty little head.
~He sees me, and he talks to me.
He speaks his heart out loud. He knows it is important to me and that I will listen. He listens to my heart because what I say is important to him. He is my friend.
~He sees me, and he adores me.
I can see it in his face. Though he doesn't speak the words explicitly, his smiling gazesays "Do you see that woman over there? Isn't she fabulous? She is mine!!"
~He sees me, and he protects me.
I belong to him and he knows it. He cherishes me with his hand on my back as we walk through the tumultous crowd.
~He sees me, and he leads me.
He knows I am his responsibility, so he provides me with security, guidance, and an easy path to walk which he has already safely trod.
~He sees me, and he wants me.
There is nothing else in this world except him when his hands are on my hips or his fingers are threaded through my hair as he kisses me.
~He sees me, and he is my friend...still.
He takes my hand in his hand and smiles affectionately at me, just before leaning over to kiss me on my cheek. On our front porch, we rock together, my husband and I, in our wooden rocking chairs, watching our grandkids play in the deepening darkness of an autumn evening.