To My Dear and Loving Husband

If ever two were one, then surely we. 

If ever man were loved by wife, then thee. 

If ever wife was happy in a man, 

Compare with me, ye women, if you can. 

I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold, 

Or all the riches that the East doth hold. 

My love is such that rivers cannot quench, 

Nor ought but love from thee give recompense. 

Thy love is such I can no way repay; 

The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray. 

Then while we live, in love let’s so persever, 

That when we live no more, we may live ever.

—Anne Bradstreet

[Happy 47th Wedding Anniversary to my favorite guy and partner for life.]

For the Traveler

 

When you travel,

A new silence

Goes with you,

And if you listen,

You will hear

What your heart would

Love to say.

A journey can become a sacred thing.

Make sure, before you go,

To bless your going forth,

To free your heart of ballast

So that the compass of your soul

Might direct you towards

The territories of spirit

Where you will discover

More of your hidden life;

And the urgencies

That deserve to claim you.

—John O'Donohue (excerpt) 

Power Steering

 

When I was six years old,
my mother bought a used
two-tone Chevy Impala
with power steering for $200.
Power steering.
She said the words as if they possessed
magical powers. She tingled as she
described in vivid detail the newfound
ease of parking and switching lanes
without the resistance of the ancient
Buick she had traded in.

As a child, I couldn’t appreciate
the power of steering.
Even now, I tend to forget
that I have the power to steer
my thoughts from the dark
cratered roads where I too often
get lost or stall out. I forget
the sheer power of steering
when my brain wanders from one
overwhelming thought to the next,
and I find myself dwelling
on past wrong turns and flat tires.

Now when I turn the key in the ignition,
I try to remember that my mind
is not a driverless vehicle.
I have the power to steer my thoughts
in the direction of gratitude,
in the direction of hope
in the direction of joy.

—Gloria Heffernan

[My family's first car with power steering.]

Our Story

Remind me again – together we
trace our strange journey, find
each other, come on laughing.
Some time we’ll cross where life
ends. We’ll both look back
as far as forever, that first day.
I’ll touch you – a new world then.
Stars will move in a different way.
We’ll both end. We’ll both begin.

Remind me again.

– William Stafford 

How We Disappear

I am in the store touching things.

Linen napkins, a blue bowl.

The world is on fire and I am choosing

between two kinds of soap.

Everyone here is doing this, filling carts

with small comforts while somewhere a child

goes to bed hungry, while the earth heats,

while men make decisions about who gets to live.

I know what this is, this careful arranging

while everything collapses.

This is how we survive.

And also how we disappear.

—Alessandra Olanow

In Praise of My Bed

 

At last I can be with you!
The grinding hours
since I left your side!
The labor of being fully human,
working my opposable thumb,
talking, and walking upright.
Now I have unclasped
unzipped, stepped out of.
Husked, soft, a be-er only,
I do nothing, but point
my bare feet into your
clean smoothness
feel your quiet strength
the whole length of my body.
I close my eyes, hear myself
moan, so grateful to be held this way.

—Meredith Holmes

Poppies

 

The poppies send up their
orange flares; swaying
in the wind, their congregations
are a levitation

of bright dust, of thin
and lacy leaves.
There isn't a place
in this world that doesn't

sooner or later drown
in the indigos of darkness,
but now, for a while,
the roughage

shines like a miracle
as it floats above everything
with its yellow hair.
Of course nothing stops the cold,

black, curved blade
from hooking forward—
of course
loss is the great lesson.

But also I say this: that light
is an invitation
to happiness,
and that happiness,

when it's done right,
is a kind of holiness,
palpable and redemptive.
Inside the bright fields,

touched by their rough and spongy gold,
I am washed and washed
in the river
of earthly delight—

and what are you going to do—
what can you do
about it—
deep, blue night?

—Mary Oliver

[Painting by my mother].