Day 183 and it is finished! at my halfway mark!

... I never write for Sean. I loathe being mushy especially publicly but this just sort of wound up being his and so today is his birthday and I want him and you to know I absolutely love and adore the guy and every ounce of this poem is so very true of him. Thank you readers for tolerating this very long and slow poem! I'd ponder what I will write about next but for fear you would suggest something I will not ;) Love you Sweetie!



The day was inundated with triviality
it left me feeling futile, overwhelmed
the to-do-list a zealous kudzu vine,
its roots strangling joy from my hours.
I'm a discombobulated disaster
Like Punxatawney Phil yanked from his hole
just to fulfill irrelevant lore
but then there is his smile
an instant episiotomy on a too tight heart
a small infant joy given breath
He is my apothecary, slow moving
and gentle, he doles out his liquid kindness,
his subtle warmth, and I am healed.
The wicked day pales. I suddenly see
the verisimilitude of this moment.
The easy truth of tenderness.
The bitter flavour of my superfluous
aggravation sweetened by one
surreptitiously shy of being recognized.
His plethora of goodness a private prize,
a visible discomfiture arising with my praise.
This medicine, my invisible saviour.
He's not an abderian soul but serenity
flows from his veins, he knows how to sit
and be, and sit and be with me.
It's a euphoric content not to be intruded
on by dirty socks or practicality in general.
It's a hippopotamus kind of love
fierce and apt but rarely elegant
It's a stick to it resolve. A sweet brown
molasses covered adoration that
never cleans away.
The engagement ring could have been
dried tortellini around my finger
I would have accepted. I still would have,
even when he makes me livid, even when I
make him livid. Even then, it's always yes.
Yes, because the Urim and Thummim landed
just so, because serendipity is a philanthropist
that likes to laugh as well, the hermaphroditic
tangle of "yours" and "mine" a source of
hapless humor to one in love with luck.
But luck has no perserverance, not like
aged wine or buttered cheese. No, luck
has very little to do with our love. I find
no twinkle of favorable odds in his eyes
only bone deep conviction that we must.
So we do, and he does it so very well
that no day, no stress, no weariness
is more than the ways I love him.