Is it too trite
that the river
for our love?
And to use the old saying that
‘You never step into the same river twice’?
Because it is
Driving through the dark Ozarks night,
following the hollows along the river,
a young couple in our headlights-
wet, walking hand in hand,
coming up from a midnight swim.
Suddenly, I am transported.
I am that girl-
shy, bold, holding your hand,
feeling your wet skin for the first time,
the rush of the river,
the rush of the newness.
Then, I laugh and see myself
reflected in your laughing eyes
illuminated by the dashboard lights.
We drive towards home,
splashing in the river.
Counting back to that first glance, seconds and minutes,
hours and years, the desire and candor of bodies,
when our days became charged with the pace of lives lived.
Years of longing renounce the yearning to another,
no longer young. The clamor of middle years
leaves satisfaction and knowledge in its place,
a quietness whose heft outweighs the struggles.
Wisdom is as wisdom does, patience is its own reward,
love never fails, never. And this is the choice,
made and kept, to choose you now and at each sunrise.
Even when the day comes my hand is not recognizable to you
And my laughter is silenced by your unknowing eyes.
If I met you today,
for the first time
would that first spark
be the same
as that long ago feeling
in a bar
in the foothills of Colorado?
Would I be as bold,
and you as cool
in the midst of another rowdy crowd?
Would our kiss
be that kiss
when the room held its breath
in awe of the lightning
crackling along the ceiling,
sending sparks cascading
into our white hair.
The day after
is always a day of regret and broken dreams.
The old slights and deep seated resentments surface
to tears and recriminations.
I had thought we would have out grown all this-
but apparently it is our karma
throughout our lifetimes together.
Better with every telling , the story of the night we met,
our creation mythology, filled with revelry and beer.
My gemini to your cancer- constellations sharing stars
aligned just so with the conjunction of planets
perfectly formed in the cataclysm of desire.
Our saga continued with heroic deeds and herculean tasks,
all spilling across pages of years. Tattooed on our faces,
deeds fair and foul, most forgotten and some forgiven,
all returning to that original sin. Our garden created
and cultivated with four hands, labored,
and on occasion, nurtured by an angel or two.
Willingly we return to that first moment, revisiting
the past lore, embellished golden with retelling.
The myth of our own making, epic, comic, tragic-
the end will be as the beginning, a story better
for the telling and perfectly formed in the stars.
*** Twelve Days of Angels, Day Seven
the morning thunder tosses and turns
across the landscape of our lavender sheets.
The white noise
of steady morning rain,
shushing against heavy green leaves,
lulls us into deeper slumber,
even as the wrensong breaks
with the dawn.
The windows are open to the morning rain.
Cool air seeps into our bed
as we curl like children under the patchwork
of our long marriage.
We’ve lost our capacity to count.
Our years together number thirty something-
(how long have we been married?)
Too many kisses to enumerate –
(except for that singular kiss. You know the one,
when the room held its breath
for the count
And that ice age when I stopped counting on you
(but you never subtracted,
only multiplied your love)
No, we’ve lost our capacity to count-
higher math and the calculations of our applied physics
have overwhelmed the
But numbers aren’t everything.
*** Brian and Claudia are jousting it out today at the Dverse Pub Tournament of Champions. Our prompt is to take a line from one of their poems and create one of our own. I chose the line ‘we’ve lost our capacity to count‘ from Brian Miller’s poem-‘if I stay-‘