Tuesday, May 5, 2009

in honor of romance

It's officially our anniversary today, and in honor of it, I'm posting my favorite romantic poem. Enjoy.

"Litany," by Billy Collins

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.

You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker

and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.

There is just no way you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close

to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner

nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,

that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley,

and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I am not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow-- the wine.

Monday, May 4, 2009

the best two years

Tomorrow marks mine and Michael's anniversary, two years since we got married and three years minus one day since we met. It's sometimes interesting to think that three years ago on May 5, as I flew to Salt Lake from Portland, I didn't for a minute think that I'd be getting married one short year later.

I'm so glad that we did.

Michael and I met playing ultimate frisbee, or maybe home teaching, or was it over smoothies? Whichever story you subscribe to, it wasn't long before we were inseparable. I liked him because he made me laugh, we could talk all day and all night, he had that fantastic dimple. When six weeks later I left him for two weeks in Mexico and two months in Oregon, he came to visit me, driving 900 miles in record-breaking heat in a black car with no air conditioning. Then it was serious, and three months later we were engaged.

Our wedding was perfect, but I don't remember much of it. Just Michael's goofy grin and my face sore from smiling and an intense gratitude for waterproof mascara after all that happy crying.

Now it's been two years, and seems like we're starting it out much like we have each May since '07: one in school, the other looking for work, and both of us happy together.

Thanks for being sweet, thanks for being silly. I love you, Michael.