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We tell men to be mountains, that 

their words should tumble down 
like boulders shaken loose in an avalanche. 

We point them to limestone 
to demonstrate 
how being porous, being open 
is a threat to their foundations. 

We tell them 
rivers flow around you, 
trees depend upon you to drive 
them closer to a burning star,
and the earth would be flat
without your existence. 

But what I love most are his curves, 
the ones I explore with light touches, 
the ones I wrap my arms around and 
squeeze to let him know that pressure
can be withstood. 

But what I love most are the curves 
of his voice, its softness...
when he whispers, 
when he asks for more. 

What I want to tell him is that he 
can be sunshine, the ocean, 
the breeze in the air.

That there are forces of nature 
ever so quietly providing without 
the grandeur of harsh, 
white snow covered peaks. 

What I want to point him to are 
the hard parts of me, the armor 
my warrior clan molded to my skin, 
an invisible cloak that can be cast off. 

What I want to tell him is that 
softness is for him, as hardness is for me.
It does suit him just as easily, and
would be less weight on his shoulders.