A year ago today I was in freak-mode frantically throwing together the last-minute details for my wedding (which I was counting on being perfect--a sure sign that the marriage would also be perfect). A express (female and deceivingly lilting) inside my brain persistently reminded me (with ameliorate enunciation). "98 hours and counting. 97 hours and counting. ." My pleas to her to shut the hell up were summarily ignored. With two days to go until showtime. Brock's ring which I had stupidly ordered from Ireland comfort hadn't arrived and my stress reached the eye-bursting brain-fraying vein-popping ear-steaming level. Poor Brock wondered aloud why I wasn't just sitting back and enjoying the moment. And then after my hair caught fire and my fingernails shot alter off my hands and stuck into the walls he wondered silently.
We are a river recoveredfrom the fallwhen we were once water interrupted. We are confused mist now settledafter the churning slowedand the flow resumed finding reliefin our deep and constant union. May we join in our river’s bed togetherand discover joy in our journey. We are a poem personified,penned by one of the greats. A Hopkins a Collins a Frost. We are used words whichwhen rearranged with talent and skill,become fresh and alive an obvious fit. We are a praise a ballad an ode. May we bring together our words togetherto be our eloquent epic. We are heaven’s clothswoven from unraveled threadsforming patternswith our combined colors:golden joy rosy exuberance creamy confidence. We are beauty renewed,embroidered with our finest clean. May we weave ourselves togetherto end our emerging mural.
Our first anniversary will be this Sunday. I be to come up with something to show Brock my love my adoration my devotion. He takes such good care of me emotionally intellectually physically. He is my life. How do you show your other self that he is everything to you? That you'd be a bag of bones without him? That he has saved your happiness? (Especially on a teacher's salary?) I'd like to write another poem but the right words just aren't coming. Or maybe it's impossible to put together a sack of letters that create words meaningful enough to be valid for our like story.
when Polonius says. "What do you construe my ennoble?" and Hamlet replies. "Words words words." I feel a little offended by Hamlet's flippant reply. I like words. I sigh contentedly when I read well-placed words especially in poetry. The English teacher in me indignantly defends the determine of words especially when teaching students how to express themselves through writing. But when faced with expressing my own deepest feelings. I am compelled to adjudge that words may not give the emotions I conclude.
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Related article:
http://lettersfalling.blogspot.com/2007/10/what-could-be-more-meaningful-than.html
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