Because I see a woman who’s done all of life’s chores: chopped, sliced, mothered, washed, dressed, grated, burned, painted, hammered, loved, lost, kicked, and cursed, raised children, held children, been left by children.
Because she is not perfect: been too hot, too cold, been joyous, depressed, ill, and very ill, warmly funny, cuttingly cold, and yet on any other day, sparkle like lemonade.
Because she is the only woman I want to walk with, drive with, eat with, lie with — having removed the flour-covered apron, undone her hair, taken my hands to the warmth of her breasts, pulling me in.
Because I like to write about the beauty of love, known it, receive it, relax in it, and share it in my work.
Because I’ve been everywhere, seen everything I ever wanted, been afloat on every ocean looking for her light calling me home.
Because I’ve spent days lost in cities and listened for her calling.
Because she is not a dream, not a fantasy.
Because one day, out of the blue, she came.
Because I fell so madly in love with her. I mean head over heels, head to toe, slap bang into the magical world of her and all she is.
Because she tickles and fizzes all over my senses, daily explodes my heart in a million bursting bubbles.
Because to me, she is the most beautiful, the most complete, the woman who owns my heart.
Because she cannot be made more beautiful than she is, inside, or outside.
Because she is my favorite poem, and that poem is called — Jenny.